The road finally ended at the edge of Lifeless Lake, a vast expanse of water shrouded in an unnerving silence. No birds sang, no insects buzzed, and the wind seemed to hold its breath beneath a thick, rolling mist that clung low over the glassy surface. The lake’s name felt less like a warning and more like a promise.

Morgan’s footsteps were tentative on the damp grass as she and the others approached the water’s edge. Alaric stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, eyes sharp and scanning the misty horizon.

Elara and Thomas fanned out to search the perimeter, their movements cautious but methodical. The silence pressed on them, unnatural and heavy, as if the lake itself was watching—waiting.

Near the shore, Morgan spotted something half-buried in the mud: a small, ancient stone, etched with faded runes. She knelt down, brushing dirt away to reveal a riddle carved into its surface:

"Where waters rest yet never sleep,
Beneath the veil where shadows creep,
The sword awaits its rightful hand,
Guarded by neither beast nor man."

Morgan read the words aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a clue, but... cryptic.”

Alaric frowned. “The sword’s here, then. But what does ‘neither beast nor man’ mean? Some kind of trap?”

Before Morgan could respond, a cold wind stirred the mist behind them.

From the swirling fog, a figure stepped forward, sharp and commanding. Ryker.

He was cloaked in dark leather, his face masked beneath a black hood, but his eyes burned with a cruel fire. Behind him, a dozen shadowy figures moved silently, their own masked faces catching what little light filtered through the mist.

Ryker’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Alaric. You wear your pride like armor, but it won’t save you.”

Alaric squared his shoulders. “Ryker. You’re outnumbered and outmatched. Leave now and avoid more bloodshed.”

A bitter laugh spilled from Ryker’s lips. “You think this ends with us? You’ve been chasing shadows your entire life.” He spat the words, venom dripping from each syllable. “Your father rots in chains because of your foolishness. And now, you follow a ghost.”

Morgan stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Enough.”

Ryker’s gaze flickered to her for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—before his cold smirk returned. “The girl’s magic is unstable. She’ll be a liability soon enough.”

The mist swirled ominously as tension thickened. Then without warning, Ryker drew his sword, a blade dark as obsidian, gleaming with an unnatural sheen.

Alaric drew his own weapon, the weight familiar in his hand. “Then we settle this here.”

Steel rang out, echoing across the still lake. Ryker moved with deadly precision, each strike calculated and swift, a relentless storm of aggression. Alaric matched him blow for blow, their swords sparking with every clash.

Around them, the fog twisted and curled, making shapes flicker in the corners of their vision.

Elara darted between Ryker’s men, her daggers flashing, cutting through shadows with lethal grace. Thomas fought with raw ferocity, brawling and grappling, using brute strength to hold back their attackers.

Morgan’s hands trembled as she reached for her magic, the mist thickening, making her power surge unpredictably. Shadows flickered around her fingers, sometimes wild and uncontrolled, sometimes a sharp, deadly edge.

Ryker’s men pressed forward, their attacks relentless. One lunged at Morgan, but a sudden blast of raw magical energy threw him backwards, crashing into the mud.

The battle raged on, a blur of movement, noise, and tension. Alaric’s blade found its mark, slicing a deep cut across Ryker’s shoulder beneath the mask. Ryker hissed in pain but snarled fiercely.

“This isn’t over,” Ryker spat, stepping back. With a swift motion, he vanished into the mist, leaving his men to retreat behind him, their figures dissolving into the fog.

As the last of Ryker’s men fled, Morgan’s knees buckled. Black, ink-like tendrils began crawling over her skin, the dark patterns swirling and spreading faster than before.

Alaric caught her before she collapsed, his voice tight with panic. “Morgan! Stay with me!”

He shook her gently, calling her name as the ink crept up her arms, coiling like living shadows, threatening to consume her entirely.

Morgan’s eyelids fluttered open, but the eyes that met Alaric’s were no longer the familiar pale grey flecked with lilac.

Instead, they glowed a piercing, radiant lilac—burning with a cold, wicked light. A cruel smile curved her lips, one that did not belong to Morgan but to Morrigan.

Alaric’s breath caught in his throat as dread flooded his heart.

“Morrigan...” he whispered, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.