Night had fallen by the time Sylas and Alira left the temple ruins. The forest was no less eerie under moonlight, but the silence now felt charged—like something unseen was watching.
Back at their temporary camp, they lit a small fire and sat close, more for comfort than warmth. The visions Sylas had witnessed still swirled in his mind, vivid and haunting.
Alira stirred the fire absently. "Do you think they'll come after us? Whoever—or whatever—guarded those memories?"
"They already are," Sylas said. "The shard doesn't just carry memories. It's a beacon. We've drawn attention—probably from forces we don't even understand yet."
Just as he said it, a faint crack echoed in the distance.
They both stood instantly, hands on their weapons. The fire flickered. The smoke rose and curled unnaturally in the air, forming shapes—circles, eyes, whispers in form.
From the shadows beyond the clearing, figures stepped into view.
At first, they looked human. Hooded. Cloaked. But as they came closer, the firelight revealed eyes that reflected no light. Pale skin stretched taut over sharp bones. And no breath, no sound—just movement.
Alira's grip tightened on her daggers. "What are they?"
"Wraithborn," Sylas said, his voice low. "I read about them in the archives back at the Hollow Citadel. They don't exist in the living world unless summoned… or called."
Three of the creatures approached the fire's edge. One lifted a hand, and the smoke around the flames began to shift, condensing into a spiral. From within, a deep growl echoed—not from the creature's throat, but from everywhere at once.
"You carry the shard," the lead figure hissed. "The silence will not protect you."
Sylas stepped forward. "I didn't steal it. I was chosen."
"No one is chosen. All are bound. And you… are late."
Before he could respond, the fire burst outward. Smoke blinded them momentarily, and in that breath of confusion, the Wraithborn struck.
Alira moved like lightning, slicing the throat of the nearest creature. It didn't bleed—but shrieked with a sound that bent the air. Another lunged for Sylas, and he activated the shard instinctively.
A pulse of dark-blue energy surged from his palm, sending the creature flying backward into a tree with a crack.
Sylas blinked. "That wasn't… me."
The shard pulsed again, faintly.
The fight turned fast. Alira's precision neutralized another foe. The last vanished into the trees, its voice echoing in the wind.
"Others will come. And they will not wait to ask."
When silence returned, Sylas collapsed near the fire. His breathing was uneven, and sweat clung to his skin.
Alira sat beside him, blood on her blade and a grim look on her face.
"Wraithborn, Sylas. That's no ordinary threat. Someone knows what you carry now. And they're not going to stop."
He stared into the fire, jaw clenched. "Then we don't stop either."
He looked at her, his voice steadier now. "I need to find the others. If this shard was part of something bigger—someone must still remember. Someone who knows what happened back then… and why it's happening again."
Alira nodded. "Then we head east. To Tharam Vale."
Sylas frowned. "That place was buried during the Silent Accord."
She smirked slightly. "Which means it's exactly where they wouldn't expect us to go."
The smoke had settled, but the memory of those eyes lingered in Sylas' mind. Watching. Waiting.
He had seen the past, fought off the present, and now the future was speeding toward them.
But for the first time, he didn't feel like he was running from it. He was walking into it—eyes open, shard pulsing, and blade ready.