The wind howled down the mountain pass, tugging at cloaks and whipping loose strands of hair into the travelers' eyes. Mist clung to the ground, thick and curling around their boots like the tendrils of some living thing. The road to Mount Vesir was steep and treacherous—an old pilgrim path long since abandoned to time and superstition.
Lyra kept to the front, her staff in hand, the iron cap at its base clicking against loose stones. Her body ached from the battle at Caer Theron, but she refused to slow down. The urgency in her chest pressed her forward—more than just the looming threat of the Wraiths. Something in her remembered this path.
There had been laughter once. Lanterns, silver and gold, bobbing in the darkness. A procession of peace, not desperation.
But those memories were whispers now. Distant and painful.
Behind her, Kai stumbled over a rock and cursed under his breath. "Does it have to be a mountain? Couldn't the ancient magical sanctuary have been buried somewhere level for once?"
Lucien chuckled quietly, a sound so rare and unexpected that Lyra actually glanced back at him.
He shrugged. "The higher the place, the closer to the Veil. That's how it was built. Sacred geometry and all that."
Kai glared at him. "Well, the old mages should've thought about access routes."
Lyra turned back with a faint smile, but it quickly faded as the path ahead narrowed into a crumbling bridge of stone. It stretched across a jagged ravine, one side of the pass sheared clean off by centuries of erosion or perhaps… battle. The drop beneath was deep—so deep that even the mist didn't reach its bottom.
Lucien moved to stand beside her. "Do you feel that?"
Lyra nodded. "Something's watching."
Kai drew his dagger, eyes scanning the rock walls that rose steeply on either side. "You think it's Wraiths?"
"No," Lyra murmured, frowning. "Not quite."
Then it came—swift and sharp.
A flash of movement to the left, followed by the soft hiss of displaced air. Lyra spun just in time to deflect a bolt of magic hurtling toward her with a barrier of force. The spell cracked against it like lightning against glass.
"Ambush!" Lucien shouted.
Figures emerged from the mist—cloaked and masked. There were five of them, each wielding short spears or curved blades, moving in perfect silence. Their armor was mismatched but well-maintained, etched with strange, circular sigils that glowed faintly in the fog.
Kai didn't wait for an order. He darted forward, engaging the closest of the masked attackers with a flurry of fast, efficient strikes. The clash of steel rang out across the pass.
Lucien summoned a blaze of violet fire, flinging it toward the bridge to block the enemy's retreat, but two of them leapt nimbly aside and rushed toward Lyra.
She barely had time to mutter a ward before they were on her. The first attacker swung low, aiming for her knees. She jumped back, staff raised, and caught the second one's blade between the metal fork at the top of her staff. With a twist, she disarmed them—but the masked figure didn't falter. Instead, they lunged again, this time bare-handed, striking at her chest with speed that didn't seem natural.
Too fast.
Lucien tackled the attacker from the side before Lyra could react, and they both went tumbling into the gravel. A blast of raw force from Lucien's palm sent the masked figure skidding back into the mist.
For a moment, the world slowed—heartbeats punctuated only by the clash of blades and the hiss of spellfire.
And then a sharp, cold voice echoed through the mist.
"Enough."
Everything stopped.
The attackers froze in place. One by one, they stepped back and lowered their weapons. Lucien stood, breathing heavily, his shirt torn and stained with dust. Kai held his dagger in a reverse grip, still on edge. Lyra scanned the mist for the speaker.
Out of the fog walked a tall figure in black and silver robes, their face obscured by a polished iron mask shaped like a wolf. They held a staff topped with a piece of obsidian that shimmered with threads of starlight.
"I mean you no harm," the figure said calmly. "But you were trespassing on sacred ground."
"We're not here to fight," Lyra said cautiously. "We're headed to the Sanctum of Echoes."
That caused a reaction. The masked figure tilted their head, as if examining her. "Few know of the Sanctum. Fewer still dare speak its name aloud."
Lucien stepped forward. "We remember."
The figure was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, they reached up and removed the mask.
A woman stared back at them—her skin a pale gold, her eyes a striking lavender. She looked no older than twenty, yet something in her gaze was ancient. Tired.
"I am Serana of the Order of the Shattered Light," she said. "And if what you say is true… then we may be on the same side."
Lyra lowered her staff, wariness fading slightly. "You're not with the Wraiths?"
Serana laughed, but there was no humor in it. "If only it were that simple. The Wraiths are not the only ones who walk the world in masks and shadows."
She gestured for them to follow. "Come. We have much to discuss—and little time. The Sanctum of Echoes is no longer the place it once was."
As the group followed her deeper into the mist, Lyra's fingers brushed against the stone of the path. It pulsed faintly under her touch—ancient magic, woven into the bones of the mountain.
They were close now.
But with every step, she felt it stronger: the pull of memory, the scent of betrayal, the echo of promises broken and never mended.
The past was rising.
And this time, it would not stay buried.