Chapter 6: Shadows of the Mentor
That night, Lyra dreamt of fire.
She stood in the center of a blazing forest, the flames licking at her heels as shadows danced on the trees. At the heart of the inferno stood Oran, his weathered face etched with anguish.
"Lyra," he called, his voice swallowed by the crackling fire. "Turn back. You're not ready."
But even as he spoke, the flames consumed him, leaving only his voice, echoing endlessly: "You're not ready."
She woke with a start, her dagger in her hand before she realized she was still in her room at the inn. The embers in the hearth had gone cold, and the faint glow of dawn seeped through the cracked window. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she ran a hand through her tangled hair, her mentor's words lingering like ash on her tongue.
Oran had always been a constant in her life, but now his absence felt like a gaping wound. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd been right to warn her away.
Kael's voice broke the silence, startling her. "Rough night?"
She turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, his sharp eyes studying her.
"I've had worse," she said, setting the dagger aside. "What do you want?"
Kael stepped into the room, his movements deliberate. "We're heading to the southern edge of town today. There's an old chapel there—the last place the townsfolk tried to defy the curse before it consumed them. If we're going to find more answers, that's where we need to look."
Lyra nodded, but her thoughts were still tangled in her dream. She didn't trust Kael—not fully—but he was her best chance at navigating this place.
As they walked through the misty streets, Lyra's mind wandered back to the first time she'd seen Oran falter. It was years ago, during a hunt gone wrong. They'd been tracking a band of marauders through the northern wilds, and Oran had been confident they'd gain the upper hand.
But something had gone wrong. A trap had been sprung, and Lyra found herself separated from Oran, cornered by two armed men. She'd fought with everything she had, her dagger flashing in the moonlight, but she was overpowered.
Oran had found her just in time, his blade a blur as he dispatched her attackers. But the look on his face afterward wasn't one of victory—it was one of fear.
"You can't let your guard down," he'd snapped, his voice sharp with anger. "Not even for a second. The moment you do, you're dead."
She'd apologized, but he hadn't softened. "Apologies don't matter when you're six feet under, Lyra. Learn from this, or it'll happen again."
It was the first time she'd seen him truly shaken, and it had stuck with her ever since. Oran wasn't a man who scared easily, but when he did, it meant something.
Now, as she followed Kael toward the chapel, she couldn't help but wonder if Whisperwood had been the source of Oran's fear all along.
The chapel was a crumbling ruin, its once-grand spire reduced to jagged rubble. The stained-glass windows were shattered, and the heavy wooden doors hung askew. Kael led the way inside, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.
The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and decay. Lyra scanned the room, her eyes landing on a worn altar at the far end. Strange symbols were etched into its surface, similar to those she'd seen in the underground chamber and the book from the archives.
Kael knelt by the altar, his expression grim. "This is where the townsfolk made their last stand. They tried to summon something to fight the curse."
"And it didn't work," Lyra said, stepping closer.
"No," Kael said. "It made things worse."
As Lyra examined the altar, a sudden chill swept through the room. The whispers that had been faint before grew louder, forming words that sent shivers down her spine.
"He betrayed us... the Saint betrayed us..."
Lyra froze. "Did you hear that?"
Kael nodded, his hand on the hilt of his blade. "This place remembers. The ritual they performed here—it left a scar."
Lyra placed her hand on the altar, and the world around her shifted.
She was no longer in the ruined chapel. Instead, she stood in a grand hall, its walls lined with robed figures. At the center of the room was a young man with piercing green eyes—eyes she recognized.
"Oran?" she whispered.
But he wasn't the Oran she knew. This version of him was younger, harder, his face set in a grim mask. He stood over an altar, a dagger in his hand, as the robed figures chanted around him.
"This isn't right," Oran said, his voice laced with doubt. "We shouldn't be doing this."
"You swore an oath," one of the figures said. "Do your part, or the curse will consume us all."
Lyra watched in stunned silence as Oran raised the dagger, his hand trembling. But before he could bring it down, the scene dissolved, and she was back in the ruined chapel, her heart racing.
Kael was staring at her, his expression wary. "What did you see?"
"Oran," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was here. He was part of this."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "If that's true, then you need to decide whether you're here to break the curse—or uncover the truth about your mentor."
Lyra clenched her fists, her mind racing. The two were clearly connected, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Oran's secrets were deeper than she'd ever imagined.
"I'll do both," she said, her voice steady.
Kael nodded, but his gaze was shadowed with doubt. "Then you'd better be ready for what you find. Sometimes the truth is worse than the curse."