Lyra stood alone beneath the moonlight, her fingertips trembling over ancient runes etched into the stone altar. The magic here was old—wilder than anything she'd ever touched. It spoke not in words but in pulses beneath her skin, and it burned when it reached the tainted parts of her soul.
She whispered the incantation again, her voice hoarse, raw from sleepless nights and silent screams.
"Velari sanctum... Velari sanctum..."
It was a banishing spell—meant to cast out darkness, sever bindings, purify the soul. But with every repetition, the pain grew worse.
The darkness wasn't just around her anymore.
It was inside her.
Her blood pulsed with the King's influence.
Each word she spoke scraped against that presence, and it retaliated.
Visions cracked through her mind like lightning.
Raven bleeding.
A blade in her hand.
Her own laughter twisted by something not quite her.
She bit into her palm to keep from screaming. Her magic flared, golden and fractured, colliding with shadow. The backlash sent her flying backwards into the dirt.
Blood pooled in her mouth. Her ears rang.
She laughed softly—broken, bitter.
"I'm trying," she whispered to no one.
But it wasn't enough.
The Forgotten King's voice slithered in.
"You cannot fight what you are becoming, little flame. You were never meant to be whole."
---
The witches watched from a distance, unsure if they should interfere. One reached out, only to be flung back by a pulse of corrupted magic from Lyra's aura.
"She's unraveling," the seer murmured. "The spellwork isn't strong enough. She's already marked."
"She's fighting him," another witch insisted.
But it didn't look like a fight. It looked like a collapse.
---
Raven found her the next day at the edge of the battlefield, arms covered in spell-burns, eyes distant like frostbitten glass. He reached for her. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him as if through another lifetime.
"What's happening to you?" he asked, voice soft.
She gave him a tired smile. "I'm trying to save you."
"From what?"
"From me."
And then she walked away—leaving him with a sinking heart and no answers.
---
Each night, the dreams grew darker.
Each morning, her strength faded.
She was Lyra.
But not fully.
Not anymore.
The spells weren't working.
She wasn't sure they ever would.
The thorns were too deep now.
Buried beneath bone and breath.
And still—she clung to hope like a dying ember.
It was the witch—the one from the battlefield.
The one who whispered forgotten truths and carried sorrow in her eyes.
She found Lyra again, this time beneath the cracked sky, where ruins hummed with residual magic.
Lyra had nearly collapsed. Her soul frayed thin.
"You are burning too fast," the witch murmured, kneeling beside her. "He feeds on the fracture, on the doubt. The dreams are his chain."
"I can't stop them." Lyra's voice cracked. "Every time I sleep, I wake up hating myself. I see myself—hurting him."
The witch reached for her hand, gentle but firm. "Then I'll walk into the storm for you."
Lyra's eyes widened. "What?"
"I can sever his reach. But magic like his doesn't snap—it must be drowned. Consumed. And that cost... is life."
"No," Lyra whispered, shaking her head. "You can't—"
"You don't understand." The witch's eyes shimmered. "I should have stopped this before it began. I was the last flame keeping the gate sealed. And now, it's open."
She stood and began chanting. The air crackled. Winds howled. The earth responded.
The old magic rose like a scream.
Lyra tried to stop her—but the witch had already stepped into the space between worlds.
Golden light burst around them—then shattered.
And the witch was gone.
Vanished like mist beneath the sun.
The dreams stilled.
The silence that followed wasn't peace.
It was grief.
And guilt.
The Forgotten King's voice was gone from her mind...
But at what price?
Lyra dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead to the scorched ground.
One life for her clarity.
And still, she wasn't sure if she was worth it.
---