Mist swallowed the village of Wrenmoor as dusk fell.
It was not the soft, playful mist that kissed the valleys in spring, nor the lazy tendrils that drifted over harvested fields. This mist was heavy, thick, and gray, as though the earth itself was exhaling the dust of forgotten bones. It muffled the sound of evening bells, smothered the glow of hearth fires, and made even the crows silent in the trees.
In the heart of this vanishing world, a boy moved like a restless shadow.
Lyric Thorn, seventeen winters old, with wild copper hair and eyes the color of a storm-lit sky, slipped through the alleys with the ease of someone used to avoiding notice. His boots, patched and worn, made no sound on the slick cobblestones. Tucked beneath his cloak was a battered oil lantern, a tinderbox, and a fragment of parchment so old that it threatened to crumble with every breath.
The map had been hidden beneath the loose stones in his grandfather's cottage — an accident, or so it had seemed. A night of howling winds had rattled the floorboards loose, and in the hollow, Lyric had found the bundle: cloth-wrapped, tied with silver thread, and sealed with a symbol he did not recognize — a twisted tree whose roots tangled with its branches, forming an unbroken circle.
He had not shown the map to anyone. Not the village elders, with their suspicious eyes and clutching hands. Not even his best friend, Marn, who would surely have blabbed after two mugs of cider.
No.Something about the map had whispered to him — in dreams and in waking — pulling at the strings of his soul with a voice that was not quite his own.
The Gate Awaits, it said.
Tonight, he would find it.
The path to the lake was little more than a deer trail, overgrown with brambles and half-hidden by the creeping fog. Branches clawed at Lyric's cloak, snagging on the threadbare wool, but he pressed on. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from anticipation. For as long as he could remember, Wrenmoor had been a cage — small, suffocating, and steeped in secrets. The thought of something ancient and wondrous hidden just beyond the veil of mist was like a spark to dry tinder.
As he neared the edge of the woods, the trees thinned, revealing the mirror-smooth expanse of the Lake of Still Waters.
It was precisely as the old stories had said — so still it seemed frozen, a perfect sheet of black glass stretching into the mist. No reeds grew along its banks. No fish jumped. No birds skimmed its surface. It was as though life itself recoiled from its touch.
Lyric swallowed hard.Even the air felt heavier here, tinged with something metallic and bitter.
Drawing a deep breath, he knelt at the water's edge. He fumbled with the tinderbox, sparks hissing into the damp air, before the lantern finally sputtered to life. The flame was small, shivering against the mist, but it was enough.
He unfolded the map carefully.The parchment was covered in ink so faded it was barely visible, but under the lantern's glow, the symbols seemed to shift, realigning themselves into patterns his mind could suddenly grasp.
At the very center of the map — the lake.
And beneath it, a symbol: the twisted tree, its roots reaching deep into unseen soil.
Lyric looked up.
The surface of the lake stared back at him, unbroken.
For a long moment, he hesitated.
Then, gripping the lantern tighter, he took a step forward.
The water did not ripple.It yielded.
His boot sank through the surface without resistance, as if stepping through smoke. Coldness licked up his leg, sharp as knives, and for a heartbeat he thought he would be dragged down, the old legends coming true at last.
But instead, the mist around him thickened, wrapping him in a cocoon of damp air.
When it cleared, he was standing on stone — black, ancient, and slick with moisture.
Beneath his feet, a wide spiral staircase descended into darkness.
The lantern guttered, fighting against the unnatural chill, but Lyric pressed onward. Each step echoed into the depths, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.
The air grew colder. The walls around him, though barely visible, were covered in strange glyphs that pulsed faintly — not carved, but alive, shimmering like veins beneath translucent skin. Some of them twisted into shapes that hurt his eyes if he stared too long: serpents devouring their own tails, hands reaching for unseen stars, faces screaming in silence.
Lyric tightened his grip on the lantern. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to flee to the safety of the known world. But some deeper instinct — older, more stubborn — drove him forward.
After what felt like an eternity, the staircase ended.
Before him stretched a vast cavern, so large that the ceiling disappeared into darkness. Faint blue light seeped from cracks in the walls, illuminating a subterranean river that wound its way across the floor like a living thing.
At the center of the cavern stood a door.
It was unlike anything Lyric had ever seen — a towering arch of obsidian entwined with living vines of gold. The surface of the door rippled like water, and as he approached, the vines stirred, parting slowly to reveal a keyhole shaped like an open eye.
The moment his shadow touched the threshold, a voice filled the cavern — vast, sonorous, and cold:
"Welcome, Heir of the Forgotten."
The words were not spoken aloud. They vibrated in his bones, in his blood.
Lyric staggered back, heart hammering. "I'm no heir," he gasped, voice barely a whisper.
The door pulsed once, and the river at its feet shimmered, casting distorted reflections on the cavern walls.
In one reflection, Lyric saw himself — but not as he was.
In the water, he wore a cloak of stars and a crown woven from thorn and flame. His eyes burned silver, and behind him loomed a host of figures — some human, some... not.
"The world sleeps," the voice intoned. "The Realm is broken. Only the Heir may restore what was lost — or destroy it utterly."
Lyric shivered. He wanted to deny it, to turn away from this madness. But deep inside, something responded — something ancient, buried in the marrow of his bones.
Without thinking, he reached for the chain around his neck — a simple amulet he had worn all his life. A gift from his mother, though he remembered little of her.
As his fingers brushed the metal, the amulet flared to life, casting a beam of pure white light onto the door.
The keyhole glowed.
The door began to open.