Chapter 16: A Descent into Shadows
Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating. It curled around Lyrian, whispering in a language not meant for mortal ears. The void was alive—not just empty space, but something sentient, something that watched, that waited.
Pain still burned in his chest, a lingering reminder of the beast's final strike. He remembered the feeling of its claws tearing through his flesh, the helplessness of his body giving way, the world slipping into silence.
But he wasn't dead.
No, something held him here.
The whispers slithered through his mind, weaving around his thoughts.
"You fell… and yet you still linger."
"Unfinished. Incomplete."
"You were not meant to return."
Lyrian strained to move, but his body felt unbound, as if he had no form here—just a mind floating in endless black. He tried to speak, but his voice was swallowed before it could leave his throat.
The abyss shuddered, as if amused by his struggle.
"They are calling you back."
"They pull, but we will not release."
A flicker of something crossed his vision—distorted images, fragmented and blurred. Fire. Blood. The sound of a woman screaming his name. The feeling of warmth—his sister's hand gripping his own when they were younger. But before he could grasp the memories, the abyss smothered them, forcing them back into the depths.
"This truth is not yours to reclaim."
A sharp, unseen force yanked at him.
The abyss recoiled. It snarled.
"They should not interfere."
"He is ours."
The whispers turned into a deafening roar, a cacophony of voices speaking as one, filling the void with its fury.
And then—
A fracture. A crack of something bright.
A force outside was calling to him.
---
Meanwhile, in the Grandmaster's Chamber…
The air was thick with magic, the stone walls of the chamber trembling under the weight of the ritual. At the center of an ancient runic formation, Lyrian lay motionless, his skin pale, his breaths shallow. The symbols surrounding him pulsed with a golden-blue light, but something was wrong. The glow flickered, uneven and strained, as if the ritual itself was struggling against an unseen force.
Professor Marlowe stood at the edge of the formation, his face lined with tension. Beside him, the Grandmaster watched in silence, his piercing gaze fixed on the boy. The elder sorcerer's deep crimson robes made him look like an immovable force, but there was a sharp glint of concern in his eyes.
"The runes are holding," Marlowe murmured, "but the resistance is unnatural."
The Grandmaster's voice was calm, but heavy with authority. "Something has its claws in him."
Marlowe nodded. "And it's not just residual magic or lingering trauma. This is deeper. As if… something is actively preventing his return."
Elyreina stood a few steps away, arms crossed tightly, watching her brother's still form. She said nothing, but her knuckles were white.
The Grandmaster folded his arms. "Have you ever seen something like this before?"
Marlowe hesitated, then exhaled. "No. I've seen injuries of the mind—sorcerers who lost themselves in illusions or dreamscapes. But this is different. It's not just that he won't wake up. It's that something doesn't want him to."
The Grandmaster's gaze darkened. "Then we must force its hand."
Marlowe glanced at him. "That's what I fear. If we push too hard, we risk severing his soul from his body completely. Whatever has him, it doesn't just want to keep him—it wants to consume him."
Elyreina flinched.
The Grandmaster studied the runes for a long moment, then turned his attention to the artifact resting against Lyrian's chest. It was an ancient piece, a relic infused with soul-binding magic, meant to serve as an anchor between realms. But its glow was dimmer than it should be, as if something was suppressing its power.
"Then we must break whatever hold it has before it takes him completely," the Grandmaster decided.
Marlowe adjusted the symbols, carefully reinforcing the formation. "I'll amplify the resonance. If it works, it should force his mind back."
"And if it doesn't?" Elyreina's voice was sharp, brittle.
Marlowe didn't look at her. "Then we may lose him."
Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating.
Then, the runes flared.
Lyrian's body twitched.
Elyreina's breath caught. "Lyrian?"
His lips parted. His voice was barely a whisper.
"…Elyreina?"
She stepped forward, reaching out—
But then, his body convulsed violently. The runes shuddered, their glow destabilizing. A pulse of energy rippled through the chamber, and Lyrian's back arched as if something was being torn from him—
The artifact trembled.
The light in the runes flickered.
Then, just as suddenly, he went still.
A final whisper slithered through the chamber, unheard by all but him.
"You cannot escape what you are."
Then, silence.