Chapter 3
The mist thickened as Lyra stepped back into the heart of Whisperwood, clutching the box Kael had reluctantly returned to her. The town seemed more alive now—not with people, but with the weight of its history pressing down on her. The whispers followed her like a persistent shadow, voices overlapping and fading, forming a low, dissonant symphony that gnawed at her resolve.
Kael's warnings rang in her ears, but Lyra was no stranger to danger. She had faced countless threats in her life and come out stronger each time. Whisperwood would be no different.
She returned to the town square, where the faceless statue loomed over the crumbling fountain. Something about it felt... off. The blankness of its face seemed almost intentional, as if it was hiding something.
"A key," Kael had said.
Lyra ran her fingers along the carvings of the box, feeling the symbols warm faintly under her touch. Instinct guided her as she placed the box at the base of the statue. The ground beneath her vibrated softly, and the whispers grew louder, forming fragmented words.
"Below... hidden... blood calls blood..."
With a deep breath, she pressed her hands against the base of the statue and pushed. At first, nothing happened. But as she leaned harder, a grinding sound filled the air, and the base shifted, revealing a stone staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
Lyra didn't hesitate. Drawing her dagger, she descended, her boots echoing on the cold stone steps. The air grew colder, and the whispers became clearer, forming desperate pleas and anguished cries.
At the bottom, she found herself in a cavernous chamber lit by an unnatural, flickering blue light. The walls were covered in carvings depicting scenes of the ritual—hooded figures chanting, a girl bound to an altar, and a towering shadowy figure looming above them. Lyra's breath hitched as she noticed one figure in the carvings standing apart from the rest, their face eerily similar to her own.
The whispers swirled around her, louder now, and a voice broke through the cacophony: "Blood calls blood. You were meant to find this."
Lyra spun around, her dagger raised, but the chamber was empty.
At the center of the room was an altar, cracked and worn with age. A basin carved into its surface was stained dark, and Lyra had no doubt it had once been filled with blood. As she approached, a sudden pressure gripped her chest, and she stumbled, gasping.
A vision overtook her.
She was no longer alone. The chamber was alive with torchlight, and the air was thick with the stench of fear and desperation. Hooded figures surrounded the altar, chanting in a language Lyra didn't recognize. A young girl—Aelina—lay on the altar, her tear-streaked face turned toward Lyra.
"Help me," Aelina whispered, her voice barely audible over the chanting.
Lyra tried to move, to speak, but her body was frozen. She could only watch as the figures raised a dagger high, its blade glinting ominously.
The scene shifted. Aelina was no longer on the altar. Instead, a monstrous shadow loomed over it, its hollow eyes locked onto Lyra. Its voice was like a thousand whispers merging into one.
"You cannot undo this. Leave now, or you will join them."
The vision shattered, and Lyra fell to her knees, clutching the edge of the altar to steady herself. Her heart pounded, and her breaths came in ragged gasps.
The chamber was silent now, but the weight of what she'd seen lingered. Lyra pushed herself to her feet, her mind racing. The ritual had bound Aelina to the curse, but there was more to the story. The carving on the wall, the whispers—everything pointed to her own bloodline being tied to this place.
Lyra turned her attention to the altar's basin. A faint glimmer caught her eye, and she reached in, her fingers brushing against something cold and metallic. She pulled it out to reveal a medallion, its surface engraved with the same symbols as the box.
The moment she touched it, the chamber trembled, and a deep, guttural growl echoed from the darkness beyond. Lyra's instincts kicked in. She spun toward the stairs, her dagger ready, as shadowy forms began to seep from the walls, their hollow eyes glowing faintly.
They moved unnaturally, their limbs jerking as if controlled by unseen strings. Lyra backed toward the stairs, her heart pounding.
One of the shadows lunged, and Lyra reacted with practiced precision, slashing through it. The shadow dissipated with an ear-splitting shriek, but more were closing in.
Clutching the medallion, Lyra sprinted up the stairs, her boots slipping on the uneven stone. The shadows followed, their guttural growls growing louder.
As she burst into the open air, the fog seemed to part briefly, and the whispers faded. The shadows stopped at the base of the staircase, retreating into the darkness. Lyra slammed the statue's base shut, sealing the entrance.
Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, the medallion warm in her hand. Whatever she had found, it important dangerously so.
Karl warning echoed in her mind. "The Shadow will come for you".
But Lyra wasn't afraid. if the Shadows wanted her ,they have to try harder than that