The night air in Eryndor carried a bitter chill, and every street felt as if it had been carved from shadows themselves. Lyra and Kael moved cautiously through the winding alleys, the glow of the Wounded Moon fading behind them, leaving only the echo of the battle and the faint scent of blood. The city had a heartbeat, and tonight it pulsed in warning, thrumming in anticipation of what was coming.
"Do you feel it?" Kael whispered, glancing nervously at the empty streets. "The air… it's heavy, like the city itself knows we've disturbed something."
Lyra's eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness. She could feel it too—the lingering presence of the Forgotten, shadows that did not belong to the night, stretching and whispering in voices only the Veil could hear. "The Veil remembers everything," she said softly, her fingers brushing the dagger at her side. "Every name, every slight, every betrayal. And it doesn't forgive easily. Not now, not ever."
Kael frowned. "Even ours?"
Lyra hesitated. "Especially ours. Once a name is spoken into the Veil more than once, it becomes a binding—a chain. The Forgotten have begun remembering. And if they recall our names, it won't just be our lives at stake."
The alley twisted sharply, forcing them into the shadow of an abandoned chapel. Its windows gaped like hollow eyes, and its wooden doors groaned as if warning intruders away. Kael's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "We need a place to think. To plan. We can't run forever."
Lyra nodded. "Here will do. For now." She pushed open the chapel doors, and they creaked ominously. Inside, the moonlight spilled through fractured stained glass, painting the walls with fractured reds and blues, as if the building itself remembered past horrors.
They moved toward the altar, where old carvings hinted at the rituals once performed here. Lyra knelt, tracing a rune etched into the stone. "This place… it's tied to the Forgotten," she murmured. "Not completely, but close. If we use it right, we might find a way to mask our names, to stay one step ahead of them."
Kael crouched beside her, studying the inscriptions. "And if we fail?" he asked, voice low and tense. "If our names echo through the Veil again?"
Lyra didn't answer immediately. She felt the pull of the Veil, its whisper brushing against her consciousness like a warning. "Then it will come for us," she said finally. "And not just us—but everyone tied to our blood, everyone we care about. The Forgotten do not forgive mistakes."
Suddenly, a rustle echoed through the chapel. Shadows danced unnaturally across the walls, and a figure emerged from the corner—a boy, no older than ten, pale and trembling, yet with eyes that burned like coals.
Lyra instinctively stepped forward, dagger raised. "Who are you?" she demanded.
The boy's lips parted, voice a fragile whisper. "I… I remember your name."
Kael's hand froze on the sword. Lyra's heart skipped. That simple declaration carried a weight heavier than steel. The Forgotten had begun their hunt, and the Veil had chosen a messenger.
"Your name," the boy repeated, eyes glinting with unnatural awareness. "I remember it twice."
Lyra felt the air tighten around her. The Veil surged at her back, shadows flaring as if anticipating the coming storm. The boy was not merely a child—he was a conduit, a herald of reckoning, and the Forgotten had sent him to remind them that their pact carried consequences.
Kael stepped closer, protective, but even he knew words could not shield them. "What do you want?"
The boy's gaze met hers, unwavering. "I want you to remember," he said softly, yet the words cut deeper than any blade. "Every choice has a price. And every name… has its cost."
The shadows in the chapel thickened, crawling along the walls like living ink. They were not mere darkness—they were memory, malice, and judgment embodied. The Forgotten were stirring, drawn by the invocation of Lyra's and Kael's names.
Lyra drew a deep breath, centering herself against the rising panic. The pact had granted them power, but the Forgotten were relentless, intelligent, and ancient. Every step they had taken to wield the Veil had been watched, measured, and cataloged. And now, the echoes of their names were reaching back across centuries, pulling the city itself into the fray.
The boy stepped forward, raising a hand. In it, he held a small shard of black crystal, pulsing faintly with red light. "If you keep walking without paying the price, it will follow," he said. "And it won't stop."
Lyra's grip on her dagger tightened. She realized the depth of what they faced. The Forgotten were no longer passive specters—they were hunters. And their names, spoken twice into the Veil, were the beacon drawing death, vengeance, and fire.
Kael's voice trembled slightly. "Then we pay the price, whatever it takes. Together."
Lyra nodded, steeling herself. "Together."
A distant scream echoed through the city streets, followed by the rolling crash of collapsing stone. The Forgotten were already moving, closer than they had realized. And as the boy vanished into shadow, Lyra knew the true cost of a name spoken twice.
The chapel doors slammed shut behind them, leaving only the moonlight to witness their resolve. Outside, the city waited, hungry and silent, as the Veil quivered in anticipation.
And beneath the fractured glow of the crescent moon, Lyra and Kael stepped into the night once more, ready to pay the price that history had demanded.