The first rays of dawn had never felt so heavy. Eryndor's skyline was jagged against the pale light, a city stitched together from stone, fire, and secrets. Lyra moved silently across the rooftops, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow made flesh. Each step was measured, every motion purposeful. The city beneath her was waking, but not as she knew it—something in the air carried a scent of decay and promise, of blood and revelation, of storms that had long been brewing.
Kael followed close behind, eyes darting to the streets below. "The city changes," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Not from the fire…from what lurks beneath."
Lyra's grip tightened on her blade. She didn't need him to explain. The Trial of Fire had not been the end; it had been a test, a sharpening of their resolve. And yet, even after surviving betrayal, death, and the cruel whims of the Veil, the sense of danger now pressed upon her chest like iron bands.
They descended to the narrow alleys near the palace district. Smoke from hidden fires curled over rooftops, unnatural in its patterns, twisting like living serpents. Lyra's eyes narrowed. These fires were markers, signs left by someone—or something—reminding the city that the Blood of the Forgotten had begun to stir.
The first body was found near the edge of the old guardhouse. Its throat had been slit with surgical precision, yet no blood marked the stone beneath. Only an echo remained, a whisper that clawed at the edges of memory: Remember me…
Lyra knelt, tracing the faint aura of power lingering over the corpse. "They're sending messages," she said, voice low. "Testing us."
Kael's jaw clenched. "Or they're warning us."
Every instinct screamed that both were true. They were not dealing with ordinary assassins, nor with the political games of Eryndor's elite. This was older, far older—ancient, patient, deliberate. The Forgotten did not act out of chaos. They acted out of memory, out of vengeance. And their memories were stitched with centuries of blood.
As they moved deeper into the district, Lyra's mind traced over every decision she had made since the Trial of Fire. Each ally, each choice, each betrayal—it all converged toward this moment. The city itself seemed to sense it, the stones vibrating beneath her boots, the wind whispering through broken windows. The Forgotten were not invisible; they were everywhere, their presence a shadow within shadow.
A sudden movement caught her eye. From a rooftop across the street, a figure watched them—still, silent, draped in black. Lyra's hand went to her blade. "Kael," she whispered. "Eyes open. Always."
The figure disappeared before she could move. A trap? Perhaps. A warning? Likely. They continued, undeterred, knowing that hesitation could be fatal.
They reached the palace gates, now blackened by fire that burned without fuel. Flames licked at the stone as if alive, each crackle a word, each plume of smoke a sentence. Lyra felt the Veil's energy stir around her, pulling, urging, warning. She had learned long ago that fear was a tool. And now, more than ever, she needed to wield it.
Inside the palace courtyard, Kael paused. "This was once a place of kings…now it's a place of whispers and ghosts."
Lyra's gaze swept the ruined hallways, the statues defaced, the floors slick with ash. Somewhere among the wreckage, someone—or something—awaited. The air grew thick with anticipation. Every step they took carried them closer to confrontation, yet farther from understanding the full scope of the threat.
A scream shattered the morning stillness, echoing from deep within the palace. Lyra's pulse quickened, and Kael drew a dagger from his belt. "They're hunting," he said. "And we're the prey."
She nodded, sliding her blade free. "No," she corrected herself. "We're hunters too."
The game had begun again. Not for survival alone, but for the truth buried beneath centuries of deceit, fire, and forgotten blood. Lyra Veylan was no longer a survivor; she was a reckoning in motion.
And the Blood of the Forgotten had only just begun to speak.