The city of Eryndor seemed to shudder as Lyra and Kael approached the remnants of the old palace. Once a symbol of order, it now lay fractured, stones toppled and towers shattered as if the very earth had rejected its presence. Flames licked the edges of the broken gates, casting flickering shadows across the debris, illuminating shapes that could have been monsters—or memories.
Kael's boots crunched against the rubble. "It's worse than I imagined," he muttered. "Everywhere you look, there's… nothing. Nothing but ruin."
Lyra's eyes scanned the shattered throne room from the outside. She could feel the Veil pulsing through her, resonating with the echoes of the past. The air was heavy with lingering magic, the kind that left a mark on your very soul. Every stone, every shard of broken glass seemed to whisper secrets she wasn't yet ready to hear.
"This is where it begins," Lyra said softly. "The Forgotten have chosen their stage, and it is built from what we have failed to protect."
The doors of the palace hung on rusted hinges, moving slightly with the wind. The interior smelled of char and rot. Lyra stepped in first, Kael at her side, each movement deliberate. The silence was suffocating, yet they both knew that the quiet carried the weight of inevitability.
At the center of the grand hall lay a throne carved from obsidian, jagged and black, adorned with symbols that pulsed with a dark, rhythmic energy. Lyra's breath caught. This was not just a seat of power—it was a beacon, a lure for all who would dare challenge the Forgotten.
A low hum began to fill the room, growing steadily, almost like a heartbeat. Shadows coalesced along the walls, forming shapes that twisted and writhed. Figures began to emerge from the darkness—specters of those long erased from history, their eyes hollow, their mouths frozen in screams.
"The Forgotten…" Kael whispered. "They're here."
Lyra's grip tightened on her blade. "They've been waiting for us."
The largest shadow stepped forward, taller than any man, its body cloaked in darkness yet defined with sharp, jagged edges. Its eyes glowed crimson, and in its presence, the air seemed to thicken, resisting every breath.
"You come to the throne," the figure intoned, voice deep and reverberating, "and you think you may claim power. You think you may undo what has been written. But this is no seat for the living. This throne is built on the ruins of the past—on the blood and despair of those forgotten."
Lyra stepped forward, refusing to falter. "I don't claim power. I claim justice. I claim vengeance. And I will not leave until the debt of this city is repaid."
The shadow laughed, a sound like grinding stones and broken glass. "Bold words for one who walks amidst ruin."
From behind them, Kael's hand rested on Lyra's shoulder. "We need a plan. They're testing us, seeing how far we'll go."
Lyra nodded, eyes fixed on the throne. "Then we make them see that we do not fear the Forgotten. That for every secret they have buried, we will unearth ten in return."
The room began to tremble. Stone cracked, and flames rose from the cracks in the floor as if the city itself was reacting to the confrontation. The shadows multiplied, filling every corner, and the air vibrated with energy that made it almost impossible to stand upright.
A sudden flash of movement drew Lyra's attention—a figure stepping from the darkest corner of the hall. Kael recognized the stance immediately. "It's her," he muttered, voice tight. "The one who warned us… the harbinger of the Forgotten."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. The woman's cloak flowed like smoke around her, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. She extended a hand, and a surge of black energy rippled toward them.
Lyra raised her sword, feeling the Veil intertwine with her every muscle, every thought. The energy struck, colliding with her defenses, and the shockwave threw them back several paces. Dust and ash swirled, and the sound of stone cracking echoed like distant thunder.
"We have to push forward," Lyra said through gritted teeth. "The throne… it calls to them. If we don't act, it will consume everything."
Kael nodded. "Together."
They advanced, cutting through shadows and whispers, each step more dangerous than the last. The figures of the Forgotten surged from every corner, yet Lyra moved with precision, a force honed through fire and loss. Every swing of her blade, every strike of Kael's sword, echoed against the obsidian walls, a symphony of defiance against the night.
The woman stepped closer, her eyes locking with Lyra's. "Do you truly understand the weight of what you seek?" she hissed. "Every life claimed, every secret unveiled, will demand a price. And the blood will answer… in ways you cannot yet imagine."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "Then let it come. We will pay no more for silence. We will carve our own path."
The shadows recoiled, the air around the throne boiling with dark magic, and a pulse of energy shot upward, illuminating the jagged edges of the hall like lightning. The Forgotten gathered, their forms towering over them, yet Lyra and Kael stood unwavering, ready to meet their destiny.
Outside, the city trembled as if recognizing the rising storm. Every soul in Eryndor, even those unaware, felt the tremor of reckoning approaching.
And as Lyra stepped closer to the throne, a thought gripped her mind with icy clarity: this was not merely a battle. It was the end of innocence, the shattering of lies, and the moment when the Blood of the Forgotten would finally awaken in full.
She clenched her sword, Kael at her side, and prepared for the confrontation that would decide the fate of Eryndor—and their very lives.
The throne loomed ahead, jagged and unyielding. The Forgotten circled, patient predators waiting for the final strike. And in that moment, Lyra understood: to survive, to win, they would have to become as relentless as the shadows themselves.
The city held its breath. The battle for Eryndor—and the reckoning of the Forgotten—was about to begin.