Mist clung to the treetops as Alaric and Lira stood at the forest's edge, the village of Siven's Hollow shrinking behind them with every step. A hush had fallen over the path before them — not silence, but something heavier. The kind of quiet that waits, breath held, for something to break it.
Alaric adjusted the straps on his pack, fingers brushing the hilt of the iron dagger tucked into his belt. He cast a glance at Lira. She looked ahead with unwavering focus, though her grip on the map was tight enough to crinkle the parchment.
"This path," she murmured, "used to be called the King's Road. Merchants, envoys, even pilgrims once traveled it freely."
"Before the rot," Alaric said, more a statement than a question.
She nodded. "Before the forest changed."
Thick roots curled across the path like skeletal hands. The trees, once noble and towering, now leaned in with twisted limbs, their bark mottled and blackened in places. Shadows flickered between branches, too fast and too shapeless to name. Yet neither turned back.
As they moved deeper, the air grew colder, each breath misting visibly. Time seemed to slow, hours stretching longer than they should. The sun was barely visible through the canopy — a pale disc smudged in fog.
"How far to the Citadel?" Alaric asked.
"By the old map, a day's walk. Maybe less," Lira replied. "But the elder was right. The forest bends distance. Some paths fold into themselves. Some lead nowhere."
Alaric stopped short. "And some lead to death."
Lira turned to him. "Yes. That's why I didn't want to come alone."
There was more in her tone than worry. There was purpose. Determination edged with guilt.
"You still haven't told me," he said carefully, "why you're going to the Citadel. You talk about curses and corruption, but there's something else."
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she drew the charm from beneath her collar — a silver sigil shaped like a phoenix clutching a sunburst.
"My father gave me this," she said. "Before he disappeared."
Alaric blinked. "Disappeared? You told me he sent you away from Virewyn."
"He did. But what I didn't say is that he vanished shortly after. One night, he gathered his council, said he had to make things right — that he had to stop the 'dark seed' before it took root." Her voice grew softer. "That was the last anyone saw of him. Except for this."
She unfolded a slip of parchment from her journal — a fragment torn from a larger page. Upon it, drawn in precise lines, was a sketch of the Citadel, or what it had once been. At its base was a single word, written in a language Alaric didn't recognize. But he felt its weight.
"He went there," she whispered. "And I think he's still there. Or... something of him is."
Alaric took the parchment gently, studying it. "Then this isn't just about ending the curse."
"No," Lira said, meeting his eyes. "It's about finding the truth."
A shriek split the air — high, keening, unnatural. Both whirled, weapons drawn.
From the trees came movement: flickers of pale limbs, flashes of eyes that gleamed like silver in moonlight. One form stepped forward — lean, elongated, and cloaked in darkness. It had no face, only a gaping void where one should be.
Alaric reacted instinctively, sword flashing in a downward arc. The creature hissed and vanished like smoke, only to reappear behind him. Lira struck with her knife, slashing across its torso. It howled, then split apart like mist in wind.
A second followed, then a third — shades of things that had once been men, now stretched and hollowed.
"Don't let them surround us!" Alaric barked.
They fought back-to-back, blades flashing silver in the gloom. Lira moved with precision, each strike controlled and deliberate. Alaric's style was rawer, forged in battlefields and blood, but no less effective.
When the final creature collapsed into ash, silence returned, broken only by their ragged breathing.
"What were they?" Lira asked, wiping blood — hers or theirs, she didn't know — from her cheek.
"Sentinels," Alaric said grimly. "The forest's defense. Or maybe its prisoners."
They didn't linger.
As the path twisted again, the woods thinned slightly, revealing a ridge. From it, they could finally see the outline of the Citadel.
It rose from the forest like a wound torn into the land — jagged towers half-collapsed, its stone walls blackened and overgrown. Vines as thick as ropes climbed its broken battlements. One tower leaned at an unnatural angle, frozen in the moment of its fall.
But more than its ruined state, it was the aura around the place that made them pause. It pulsed. Not with life, but with memory. Pain. Grief.
Lira exhaled shakily. "It's worse than I imagined."
"Then we're in the right place," Alaric said.
They made camp before sunset, unwilling to enter the Citadel's grounds at night. Alaric gathered dead branches, stacking them neatly while Lira kindled a fire. It took three tries before the flame caught.
"Do you think your father knew what he was walking into?" Alaric asked as the fire crackled low.
"I think he suspected. I think he believed it was his responsibility to fix what the kings before him let fester."
"And you?"
"I think I have to finish what he started."
A pause, then Alaric said, "You know you might not like what you find in there."
Lira stared into the flames. "I've already imagined the worst. That he's dead. That he's... become something else."
Alaric was silent. Then, after a long moment, he said, "When I was young, I thought the world was made of lines — good, evil, justice, vengeance. But places like this blur those lines."
She looked at him. "And yet you still walk into the dark."
He smiled faintly. "Because someone has to."
They didn't speak much after that. Sleep came fitfully, haunted by flickering shadows and distant whispers that might have been wind — or might not. Lira dreamt of towers crumbling in reverse, rebuilding themselves with screams instead of mortar.
By morning, the Citadel loomed closer than before, though neither had moved. As if the fortress had crept toward them in the night.
They packed in silence, nerves fraying. As they crossed into the Citadel's grounds, a sudden weight pressed down on their shoulders — not physical, but emotional. Like walking through grief.
The gates had long since rotted. They stepped through the archway, past faded reliefs carved into the stone — scenes of battle, of glory, of something more ancient.
Inside the courtyard, nature warred with ruin. Trees had grown through stone, roots bursting from flagstones. The air was thick with the scent of decay and ash.
And still, they pressed on.
A rusted door creaked open under Lira's push, revealing a narrow hallway choked with vines and dust. Tapestries hung in tatters, their once-proud emblems faded to ghosts.
They found the throne room by accident — or perhaps fate. It was vast, echoing with absence. The throne itself stood cracked and empty, but not abandoned.
At its foot, scattered across the floor, were pages. Torn, aged, but unmistakably written in the same hand as the fragment Lira carried.
She dropped to her knees, gathering them carefully. Her voice trembled. "It's his writing."
Alaric stood guard as she sorted through them, piecing together fragments of a journal — desperate thoughts, half-formed warnings, and one chilling phrase repeated over and over.
The Citadel listens. The Citadel remembers. The Citadel changes you.
Then came the final page.
Lira, if you ever find this — forgive me. I went too deep. I saw too much. The forest was only the beginning. The truth lies beneath the throne. But do not follow. Not unless you are ready to become something else.
Tears slipped down her cheek as she folded the letter.
"He was here," she said. "And he was still... him. For a time."
Alaric knelt beside her. "Then we find what he found. And we end it."
A wind stirred through the chamber, carrying with it the scent of old blood and something deeper — something waiting.
They rose together, two figures in a fallen court, surrounded by the echoes of a forgotten kingdom.
And below them, hidden beneath the throne, the darkness stirred.