Echoes of the Unknown

The cold night wind bit into their skin as Ronan and Lyria stood outside the collapsed cavern, staring into the chasm from which the beast had risen. A thick, unnatural silence hung in the air, broken only by their labored breathing.

Ronan’s golden eyes scanned the horizon, still glowing faintly. Though the battle had ended, the dread in his chest remained.

Lyria looked at him carefully. “That voice… You recognized it, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, knuckles still pale from the death grip on his sword. “It wasn’t supposed to be awake.”

Lyria blinked. “What wasn’t supposed to be awake?”

“The thing that whispered.” He turned to her, his gaze hard. “That wasn’t the beast. That was something older. Something worse.”

Her stomach turned. “Worse than what we just fought?”

Ronan nodded. “Much worse.”

Before Lyria could press him further, a sharp wind howled through the broken cliffs. The sky above shimmered unnaturally, faint cracks of violet lightning pulsing in the clouds. The very air seemed to hum with anticipation.

Then they felt it.

The pull.

Ronan reacted first, grabbing Lyria’s hand. “Move.”

The ground beneath them shimmered—and exploded upward as shadow tendrils erupted from below, reaching toward them like claws. They dashed aside, dodging the lashes of darkness as the tendrils dug into stone and dragged it into the abyss.

“What the hell is happening now?!” Lyria shouted.

Ronan slashed through one of the tendrils, golden energy crackling along the blade. “A summoning. Something’s forcing an opening.”

“An opening to what?”

He didn’t respond. But she could see it in his eyes.

Fear.

More tendrils burst forth, forming a spiral that twisted into the sky. At its center, a tear in reality began to open—dark and swirling, like an eye made of storm and shadow.

From within, a shape slowly emerged. Cloaked in mist, its form was obscured—but its presence alone caused the sky to darken. Every instinct screamed danger.

Lyria gritted her teeth. “Do we fight it?”

“No,” Ronan said sharply. “We survive it.”

He stepped forward, holding his blade steady. His aura ignited once more, golden light spilling across the earth. “But if it crosses into our realm… I’ll stop it.”

The tear widened.

The figure stepped closer.

And then—

It stopped.

A voice echoed from the rift, deep and cold. “You’ve grown, Ronan. But not enough.”

Ronan’s heart stopped.

Lyria turned to him, confused. “Who—?”

The voice continued, “She will be the key. And when the time comes, you’ll choose wrong. Just like before.”

The figure vanished.

The rift closed.

And the tendrils turned to ash.

Lyria stared at the now empty sky. “What the hell was that?”

Ronan didn’t speak. He simply turned and began walking.

Lyria followed, hurrying to catch up. “You’re not going to explain?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

He stopped.

She nearly bumped into him.

He turned slowly, eyes meeting hers. “If I tell you what that was… you’ll never look at me the same.”

Her expression softened. “Ronan, after everything we’ve been through—”

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “I need to make sure you survive what’s coming first.”

The tension between them lingered, heavy and unspoken. But she didn’t push.

Instead, she said, “Then tell me what we do next.”

Ronan exhaled. “We go to the Aether Gate.”

Lyria’s eyes widened. “That’s just a myth.”

“No,” he said. “It’s real. And it’s the only place that might hold answers. The only place left that’s still untouched by the corruption.”

They traveled through the night, crossing blackened hills and twisted forests. The land itself felt wrong, as if the awakening of the rift had stirred something deep beneath the surface. Even the stars looked different now—flickering like dying embers.

Eventually, they reached a cliffside overlooking a ruined city swallowed by vines and fog. At the center, rising like a broken monument, was a spire of silver stone—the gate.

Lyria narrowed her eyes. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” Ronan replied. “But getting to it won’t be easy.”

They descended the path, entering the dead city. The moment their feet touched the stone streets, whispers filled the air—faint, echoing voices that spoke in a language neither of them understood.

Lyria shivered. “I hate this place.”

“Stay close,” Ronan said.

As they approached the spire, shadows began to move. Dozens of them, humanoid in shape but hollow-eyed and twitching unnaturally. Their bodies were made of ash and bone, barely held together.

Ronan drew his sword. “Guardians.”

Lyria readied her own blade. “Let’s do this.”

They charged into battle, blades clashing against the ashen husks. Ronan’s movements were precise, lethal. Every strike burned with golden light, reducing enemies to dust. Lyria followed his lead, her attacks weaving through the chaos with elegance and fury.

But they kept coming.

Ten.

Twenty.

Fifty.

The horde surged around them, endless and silent.

Lyria grunted as one slammed into her side, knocking her down. She rolled, stabbing upward and taking it out, but more replaced it instantly.

“Ronan!” she shouted.

He was already moving.

A golden sigil formed beneath his feet, ancient runes glowing with power. He stabbed his sword into the ground—

BOOM.

A wave of light blasted outward, disintegrating every creature in its path.

Silence returned.

Lyria stood slowly, eyes wide. “That was…”

He didn’t respond. He looked up at the spire—at the sealed door etched with celestial markings.

“It’s time.”

He stepped forward, placing his hand against the seal. The markings pulsed in response.

A low hum filled the air.

Then—

The door opened.

Light spilled from within, blinding and divine. It reached toward Ronan like it recognized him.

And in that light—

A voice called his name.

His real name.

Not “Ronan.”

“Caelum.”

Lyria turned sharply. “What did it just say?”

But Ronan was frozen.

Because only one person had ever called him that.

Someone who should be dead.