Music recommendation: The World Burns Around Us by Secession Studios, Greg Dombrowski, on Spotify music.
The sound of clashing swords thrust Lyra to the center of the battlefield, where creatures of the realm united against the legions of angels descending from the heavens. Her heart pounded in her chest as the gruesome spectacle unfolded before her eyes. The ground beneath her feet was saturated with blood, sinking them deep into the soil. Desperation gripped her as she attempted to move but remained rooted to the spot, the crimson pool around her deepening, staining her nightgown up to her thighs.
In her search for help, a familiar voice cut through the chaos, and she turned to see her grandfather standing a few paces away, unmoving, with a solemn expression etched on his face.
"Lyra," Conrad called out to her, arms open in welcome.
Overwhelmed by despair, she yearned to run into his embrace. 'Grandfather...' she voiced in her mind, a strained tear trailed down her cheek. Paralyzed, the blood pool reached her waist.
"Lyra…" Conrad called out again, anguish marking his features, blood staining his stomach—the same grave wound he received back at the village. "Why did you kill me?" the atmosphere shifted as the figures around them halted, turning to face Lyra.
She stiffened, her eyes widening. 'I didn't—' she thought.
"This is all your fault," Conrad bellowed, blood spilling from his lips, eyes filled with rage. The figures surrounding her mirrored the same resentment in their faces.
'No, that's not true!' she cried in her mind. The crimson pool reached up to her neck as she sunk deeper as everyone stood motionless.
"You've brought calamity upon this realm!"
'No please! Believe me!'
Blood seeped to her lips, spilling into her mouth, drowning her as darkness descended upon her. Lyra gasped, waking up in her cell alone. Coated in sweat, she wiped her forehead. She winced as the shackles dug into her skin. Days passed, and she endured the torment of the prison. The only solace came from the companionship of the woman she befriended—Aria, who shared the same cell.
Looking around her cell, Aria was missing. Their tormentors made rounds, forcing victims to drink the disgusting substance and subjecting them to abuse. Many of them did not survive the onslaught.
The sound of a door swinging open echoed down the hall. Two guards dragged another victim, stopping at Lyra's cell. They flung Aria's body to the floor as if she weighed nothing. Lyra crawled over to Aria, her face stricken with worry. Cradling Aria in her arms, she sat beside her. Aria's petite frame was marred with burn marks, and her lips were stained with blood mixed with the ominous black residue.
"L-Lyra…" Aria wheezed. Her eyes were sunken, barely open, her breathing scarce. Lyra grimaced.
"Try not to speak," Lyra urged, trying to preserve Aria's strength. "You're going to be just fine," she whispered, cradling her head and swaying to comfort them both. Tears threatened to fall.
"Lyra…I'm so tired. Can you sing for me, please," she pleaded in a small whisper.
"You know I don't sing." Lyra lied.
"Please L—" Aria coughed, blood sputtering over Lyra's chest, but she didn't care. Eventually, she conceded.
She thought of her grandfather's war hymns from childhood, which started with a somber tune. The melody spoke of a brave knight leaving for war, his heart remaining with the lover he left behind.
"You're a terrible singer," Aria teased, and Lyra giggled. "It's strange that you have a name like Lyra."
"I did warn you, though." she retorted.
"My grandmother named me after a songbird she once heard. My grandfather told me they are native to the land of Eden and their songs a like symphony when a flock are flying together," Lyra admired the story of her name, despite never hearing it from her mother's lips. She once dreamt to see the birds and listen to their hymns. It was a fleeting dream that had its last flight as Lyra sat there on the cold damp floor.
Aria's cough worsened, her chest rumbling with congestion as blood slipped down the corner of her lips. Opening her eyes at Lyra's teary face, she weakly raised her hand to palm Lyra's cheek.
"I'm scared, Lyra…I-I don't want to d—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Lyra chided. "You're going to be fine; you're strong, just like your wolf," her voice cracked. Like her, the cursed shackles binding the shifters in human form rendered them powerless.
Aria smiled bitterly, "I fear I can't sense her anymore." Tortured beyond her limits, she knew her wolf was gone, and she would soon follow.
"Lyra…be strong…y-you need t—"
Aria's hand fell limply as the light in her eyes grew dim, and her chest fell. Tears flowed down Lyra's cheeks as she curled over, hugging Aria's head. The warmth from her body was still fresh, though her body was so thin bones were visible through the rags she wore. Combing through her tangled hair, trying to make her presentable, she laid her back on the floor, closing her eyes and placing her hands over her stomach.
Aria shared a little about herself during the past few days. She was sixteen years old and had her whole life ahead of her. She was a simple maid who helped her family make an honest living at the inn they ran. She loved to sing and hum her favorite lullaby to help Lyra sleep. The tiniest spark of hope always brought life to Aria's doe-shaped eyes. She was gone, taking the last shred of hope with her.
'Hope?' Lyra wondered.
Hope was supposed to empower, enlighten, and inspire. That last spark of light seemed to diminish in Lyra's eyes as she fell in despair, cupping her face. She prayed to the creator to offer solace to the innocent soul to reunite with her wolf in the warm embrace of their goddess. Fate was cruel to Aria; She didn't deserve this torment, and none of them did. Fate was cruel to all the lost souls here.
'Fate?' Lyra questioned in her mind. Life itself was hard, but why must she endure the agony? What crime did she commit to bring her to this hell? What path was she supposed to take? What choice was she supposed to make? Her grandfather's teachings of protection only helped so far, but now she was losing hope in ever seeing the light of day. Her nightmare-turned-reality was slowly muddling her mind, and she was close to snapping.
If only the great, divine beings from Eden could save her from this hellscape, Lyra prayed to the Creator. Her heart yearned for a divine intervention, a sign that hope was still there.
'Now you're just running in circles. Hope is nothing but an invitation to suffer in vain.'
'No. I can't give up now. I know the Creator will prevail, and the angels will give out their divine judgment to save us.'
'The Creator? If the omniscient being was present in this realm, why did he leave the angels to do his bidding and let demons run amok in this realm? What was the point in all this?!'
Lyra was growing hysterical by the minute. The loss was too much, with death lingering on every corner. Her parents perished when she was born, her grandfather died in her arms, and now Aria lay lifelessly in her cell. She was conflicted—fighting to survive or giving in to death. Her breath became ragged as she tittered from sanity to a psychotic break. Her mind chose the latter.
'All my prayers have fallen on deaf ears,' Lyra broke, her body shook. Running her fingers through hair curls, nails digging into her scalp, she stood. She felt the Creator had forsaken her and all the poor souls here, left to rot. The angels made a fine example of their biased choice by abandoning the villages to fend for themselves. They were not benevolent and just; the celestials were viler than the demons torturing her here.
Lyra felt the burning sensation rise in her stomach, her despair slowly turning to anger. If the Creator has forsaken the people here, their souls be damned, trapped in a never-ending nightmare. She released a harrowing scream at the top of her lungs in the cold, damp cell, echoing across the dim halls. Her anguish was evident by the tears streaming down her pale cheeks. The burning sensation crawled up her throat; she didn't stop even when her voice began to crack. She couldn't take it anymore.
Lyra's head grew heavy as she swayed; the room spun around her. She tried to gather her bearings. She noticed a tall figure of a man standing at the corner of her cell, cloaked in the shadows. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, already losing her sanity; what more is there to add?
Glowing red eyes with golden specks like embers gazed at Lyra from the shadows. She could feel the pull from her soul beckoning to come forth. The sensation from her stomach intensified like someone lit a furnace, and she groaned.
'I heard your prayers. Your pain. Your sorrow. Your anguish,' a low baritone voice whispered to her mind, reaching her soul.
The dark figure stretched his pale hand out from the darkness, palm facing up elegantly, reaching out to Lyra, beckoning her to come to him. No longer able to differentiate between reality and dream, she slowly approached the man, dark whisps slithering around her, snaking up her legs. Her instincts were screaming to run. The figure spelled danger; the consequence would be dire when she takes his hand, sealing her fate.
'Let me help you,' his voice purred in her mind, her heart beating erratically. His voice was like a siren beckoning her to the edge of the abyss. She placed her hand in his, his cold fingers clasping it tightly, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. She threw her head back in an arch, her eyes widened, her mouth agape. The black, inky whisps crawled up her body, reaching her face and flowing into her mouth. Wind spiraled around them, picking up speed, her hair flowing across her face. Overwhelmed by the sheer pain racking her insides, she collapsed to the floor, convulsing before she fainted. The figure was gone, leaving her alone in her cell once more.