The forest did not welcome them.
The deeper Alaric and Lira walked beneath the ancient canopy, the more the world changed. Daylight thinned into a dull gray that barely filtered through the twisted limbs above. Trees stood too close together, gnarled like arthritic fingers, their bark slick with a sheen of something that looked like sap but smelled faintly of rot. The path narrowed until it was no longer a path at all—just the barest suggestion of direction between looming roots and bramble-choked hollows.
Lira's boots crushed fallen leaves that hissed underfoot like dry whispers. Behind her, Alaric scanned their flanks, his newly acquired blade loose in his grip. The iron dagger from the smith rode at his hip, and though it was a poor match for the sword he had once carried, it was a comfort to feel its weight.
"Still nothing," he murmured after another mile, eyes flicking to the shadows shifting along the tree trunks.
Lira nodded. "It's too quiet. Even the birds are gone."
"They were gone before we passed the boundary," Alaric said grimly. "This is where the village claimed the forest changed."
The silence pressed around them, thick and alive. The only sound was the soft breath of wind rustling through dead branches, and now and then, the unsettling creak of the woods settling — or waking.
They stopped near a shallow brook, its waters black and sluggish, winding like a vein through the earth. Lira crouched to examine it, frowning as she dipped a gloved finger into the current.
"It's warm," she whispered.
Alaric joined her. "No stream should be warm in spring."
Lira stood and wiped her hand quickly on her cloak. "The land's poisoned."
They moved on, deeper still.
At midday, the canopy grew so dense that it felt like dusk had arrived early. The air thickened, smelling of wet stone and mildew. Vines hung like nooses from the trees, some twitching slightly when brushed, as though recoiling. Alaric caught movement twice—once high above, a flash of something pale, the second time low to the ground, a blur in the undergrowth—but when he turned his sword toward it, the forest revealed only stillness.
They pressed forward until the trees abruptly parted.
Before them, the land dipped into a wide basin, the floor of which was choked in fog. And rising out of that fog, nestled in the hollow like a buried wound, stood the remains of the citadel.
It was not as Alaric had imagined. No towering spires or proud banners remained. The walls slouched, their stones blackened and worn smooth as bone. A crooked tower jutted from one corner like a broken fang, and the gate — once strong, no doubt — now leaned askew, its iron bars twisted outward.
"It's worse than I thought," Lira said softly.
"Or exactly what we feared."
Thunder rumbled somewhere far behind them, low and rolling. The storm they had seen on the horizon was catching up.
"We'll have to make shelter soon," Alaric said. "That ruin might be our only choice."
"Then let's not waste time."
They descended slowly, wary of every step. The fog clung to their legs, cool and damp, obscuring the uneven stones of the forgotten road. Shapes loomed in the mist—crumbled statues, shattered pillars, the remnants of a forgotten age. Alaric passed what looked like a humanoid figure, its arms outstretched in a pose of supplication. The face had been carved away.
By the time they reached the gate, the wind had picked up, dragging mist across the courtyard like smoke.
Lira touched the rusted iron of the gate and paused. "It's... humming."
Alaric felt it too — a faint vibration, just beneath the skin. Not physical, but deeper. Like the air here remembered something. Something that wasn't ready to be forgotten.
They entered.
The interior of the citadel was darker than the forest had been. Moss grew on the stones like scabs, and shattered windows let in thin, silvery light. Their footsteps echoed on flagstones slick with years of condensation. Old banners hung limp from the rafters, their colors long faded, symbols erased by time or something worse.
In what had once been a grand hall, they found the remnants of a mural — a battle scene, barely visible. A crowned figure stood at the center, wielding a blade not unlike the one in Alaric's dreams. Around the king, shadowy creatures surged forward, all teeth and claw and smoke.
"Do you see that?" Lira asked, pointing at the central figure. "That armor… it's the crest of Virewyn."
Alaric's brows furrowed. "Then this king was one of yours."
She nodded, but unease darkened her expression. "One history never speaks of."
Lightning flashed behind the ruined walls, casting strange, dancing shadows across the mural. For a moment, the eyes of the painted king seemed to glow.
A loud crash echoed through the halls.
Both froze. The sound had come from somewhere above — stone shifting, something moving. Then came another sound. A low rasp. Like claws on stone.
Lira drew her dagger. "We're not alone."
"No," Alaric said, sword raised. "We never were."
They backed toward the far wall, where a broken stairway led down. A soft, wet shuffle echoed again — closer now.
"Down there," Alaric said. "We'll lose it in the tunnels."
They descended quickly, boots clattering on crumbling stone. The stairwell opened into a series of underground chambers — tight, damp spaces carved directly into the bedrock. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, and old chains clinked in the breeze like faint bells.
In one room, they found a row of empty cells. In another, a pile of rotting books and a desk carved with arcane sigils. Lira lingered, fingers brushing the symbols.
"These are binding marks," she whispered. "This was no fortress. It was a prison."
Something screamed — not close, but not far. High-pitched, furious, and unnatural.
They ran.
Alaric led the way, winding through the tunnels, sword drawn, his breath hot and fast. He could feel it behind them — a presence thick and hateful, its hunger pressing against his back like a hand.
The passage forked. He chose left. The walls closed in tighter. Dust stung his eyes.
Then suddenly — light.
A broken doorway led into a wide, circular chamber lit by a strange bluish glow emanating from the ceiling — a crystal embedded in the rock, pulsing faintly.
Here, the air felt clearer. Less poisoned.
Lira stumbled to a halt beside him. "What is this place?"
In the center of the room stood a stone altar. Carvings covered its surface — not in any language Alaric recognized. Above it, a second crystal hovered, slowly turning, held in place by invisible magic.
Something about the altar pulled at him — the way a memory sometimes tugs at your mind just before you wake.
He stepped forward.
"Alaric?" Lira's voice held a warning.
"I've seen this before," he whispered. "In dreams."
Before he could reach it, the wall behind them exploded inward.
A shape emerged from the dust — all limbs and twisted bone, eyes glowing with cold hunger. Its form was vaguely humanoid, but elongated, stretched too far. It hissed and lunged.
Alaric met it with a cry, sword swinging wide.
The impact sent vibrations up his arm. The creature snarled and lashed with a clawed hand, but Lira was already there, her dagger flashing. She struck at its side, distracting it long enough for Alaric to drive his blade up beneath its ribcage.
A screech tore from its throat — and then, nothing. The creature collapsed into dust.
Both of them stood panting, bodies trembling from the fight.
Lira wiped her blade clean. "That wasn't a guardian. That was a remnant."
Alaric turned back to the altar. "Whatever this place was… it's still alive. And it remembers."
Thunder crashed again above.
The citadel had awakened.
And far above, beyond the clouds, something stirred in response.