The first thing Lyra noticed was the cold. It wasn’t the crisp bite of winter air or the familiar chill of a drafty room. It was something deeper, a cold that seeped into her bones, anchoring her to the ground as though the earth itself was trying to swallow her whole.

She opened her eyes to a sky she didn’t recognize. The sun hung low, obscured by thick, swirling clouds of ash. The air smelled of smoke and metal, sharp and acrid, and the landscape stretched out in jagged, unrecognizable shapes. Blackened earth. Twisted, metallic debris. In the distance, massive towers of stone and steel leaned precariously, their silhouettes hazy against the choking haze of destruction.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Or was it her chest? Her hands shot to her face, trembling, only to find skin smoother and softer than she remembered. Panic clawed at her throat as she stumbled to her feet, her legs unsteady like a newborn fawn. The movement made her aware of something heavy on her back—a cloak, trailing in the dirt, embroidered with runes that faintly shimmered when she touched them.

“What… what is this?” Her voice came out stronger than she expected, steady despite the whirlwind of confusion in her mind. It wasn’t her voice. It was lower, commanding, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down her spine.

A glint of metal caught her eye. On the ground beside her lay a shard of a shattered mirror. With hesitant fingers, she picked it up and held it close. The face staring back at her was not her own. Long, dark hair framed sharp cheekbones and piercing silver eyes that glowed faintly, like molten moonlight. The face was otherworldly, beautiful, and terrifying.

“No… no, this isn’t me.” Lyra dropped the shard, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “This can’t be real.”

Her mind raced, fragments of memories that weren’t hers flashing like lightning. A name surfaced, unbidden: Eira. The name brought with it a torrent of emotions—pride, anger, betrayal, and something darker she couldn’t quite name. Images of a grand hall filled with kneeling figures, a staff glowing with power, and a blade plunging into her chest.

Lyra clutched her head, the flood of memories overwhelming. “Eira… I’m not you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. But the truth settled in her gut like a stone. She was Eira now, or what was left of her.

A sudden noise snapped her out of her thoughts. Voices. Low and guttural, carried by the wind. Lyra turned, her eyes narrowing as figures emerged from the ash. There were three of them, their clothes ragged, their faces gaunt with hunger. Scavengers.

One of them, a wiry man with a crooked grin, pointed a rusted blade at her. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve found ourselves a prize.”

“Leave me alone,” Lyra said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

The man laughed. “Bold, aren’t you? Do you even know where you are? No one’s going to save you out here.”

The others spread out, circling her like wolves. Instinctively, Lyra took a step back, her hand brushing against the staff strapped to her back. The moment her fingers touched it, a surge of energy shot through her, electric and alive. The scavengers hesitated, their eyes widening.

“Wait… that staff… That’s…” The man’s voice faltered, his bravado replaced by fear. “It’s her.”

“Her?” Lyra asked, but the word came out differently—sharp, commanding, as though the voice of Eira herself had broken through.

Before she could process what was happening, one of the scavengers lunged at her. Time seemed to slow. Her body moved on its own, her hand gripping the staff and swinging it forward. A blinding arc of blue light exploded from its tip, slamming into the man and sending him flying into the rubble. He didn’t get up.

The remaining scavengers stumbled back, their faces pale. “She’s alive,” one of them whispered. “The Fallen Sorceress… Eira…”

Lyra froze, the staff still glowing in her hand. The name echoed in her mind, carrying with it a weight she wasn’t ready to bear. The scavengers turned and ran, their shouts fading into the distance.

She was alone again, the silence pressing down on her like a physical weight. The staff hummed in her grip, a reminder of the power now coursing through her veins. Power she didn’t understand. Power she wasn’t sure she wanted.

Lyra looked around the desolate landscape, the ruins stretching endlessly before her. Somewhere out there were answers—about Eira, about this body, about the world that seemed to crumble beneath her feet.

She tightened her grip on the staff and took a shaky step forward. If this was her second chance, she wasn’t going to waste it.