Chapter 3 Her Father's Grave

Lyra had seen the mountain all her life-

but only in dreams.

It was always distant. A shadow behind clouds.

Something the stars whispered about.

Something that watched but never moved.

She used to think it wasn't real.

Just a dream. Just a myth.

Just a warning.

But now, it stood before her-

taller than she imagined.

Darker than the night behind it.

And alive in a way that made her bones ache.

The mountain didn't just exist.

It remembered.

---

As they walked, the air thickened.

The light dimmed though the sky stayed cloudless.

Leaves turned brittle underfoot.

Tree bark cracked open in long, sick lines-

as if the forest itself was rotting.

No birds sang.

No insects buzzed.

Even the wind refused to move.

It was as if nature had stopped breathing.

Lyra stepped on a branch.

It snapped-loud, dry, final.

Like a neck breaking.

The wolves flinched behind her.

Alexander raised a hand. "Stop."

The pack froze.

His eyes were locked ahead. His voice lowered.

"We're close."

---

Lyra's fingers wrapped around her pendant,

the one her father gave her the night he disappeared.

It had always been warm-

comforting, like a heartbeat in metal.

Now, it felt wrong.

Colder.

Heavier.

Like something inside it was waking up.

She turned to Alexander. "Why here?"

He didn't answer.

But the earth did.

A shudder rippled beneath them.

Not an earthquake-

a pulse.

Something deep underground exhaled.

The trees groaned like old bones settling.

Then-

A woman stepped from the woods.

---

She was barefoot.

Her feet stained black with dirt or blood.

Her long white braid dragged behind her like a trail of ash.

She didn't blink.

Didn't speak.

Didn't look at them.

Yet her eyes-pale, blank-seemed to see everything.

"The seal is broken," she whispered.

"Even the earth knows. Listen."

They listened.

Silence.

Not emptiness, but the silence that comes when something else is listening.

And then-

the breathing.

Long.

Slow.

Ancient.

Breathing that didn't belong to anything living.

---

Alexander unsheathed his sword.

His voice dropped.

"This is where your father made his final stand."

Lyra's heart stumbled.

"You said he vanished-"

"He did," Alexander replied. "But not in the way you think."

---

They climbed the slope together.

Each step heavier than the last.

The mist thickened, climbing up their legs like vines.

Clinging. Tugging. Testing.

The wolves wouldn't come further.

Even Rykar-the alpha-whimpered and sat at the edge, tail low, ears back.

When they reached the summit, the forest ended.

And the world changed.

---

There was no cave.

Only a great gash in the mountain.

Like it had been ripped open from the inside.

Stone jagged and raw.

Veins of old fire still glowing beneath cracked rock.

It wasn't an entrance.

It was a wound.

And it was bleeding mist.

The air turned sharp-metallic, like rust and death.

Alexander stood beside her. "This place was sealed with ancient rites-fire, bone, blood, and vow."

Lyra felt the words crawl over her skin.

"But it didn't hold," she said quietly.

"No," the pale woman murmured. "Because something remembered."

---

Lyra's gaze dropped.

A glint.

Metal.

Half-buried in the stone.

She walked toward it. Drawn.

"Lyra, wait-" Alexander warned.

But her feet moved like they belonged to someone else.

She knelt.

It was a sword-

black as night,

sunken deep into the earth.

She touched the hilt.

It was cold.

Not the cold of winter-

the cold of tombs.

Then her vision changed.

---

Flames rose around her.

Shadows screamed.

Wolves howled into the void.

And there-her father.

Bleeding. Tired. Burning with magic.

He gripped this very sword, planted it in the ground-

a sacrifice, a prison.

Shadows clawed at him.

Tried to pull him in.

But he held.

And the gate sealed.

His last words were a whisper.

"Keep her away."

The vision cracked apart like glass.

---

Lyra gasped, falling back.

Her hand burned from the touch of the sword.

"He sealed them in," she whispered. "Alone."

Alexander's jaw clenched.

"And now the gate is open again."

The mist stirred.

A shape emerged.

It didn't walk.

It glided.

Seven feet tall.

Bones wrapped in shadow.

A crown of black flame above its head.

Its eyes-

Red. Bright. Ancient.

It stared at Lyra like it had waited centuries just to see her.

The pendant on her neck flared-white hot-then turned ice cold.

She tore it off.

Dropped it.

The creature surged forward.

Alexander raised his blade.

"Lyra," he growled. "You have to choose. Run... or fight."

---

She turned to the sword.

It wasn't rusted.

It wasn't waiting.

It was calling.

Blood welled on her palm as she grabbed the hilt.

She pulled.

The mountain screamed.

The ground split.

The sky howled.

The mist shrieked and scattered like ash.

And Lyra rose.

The sword in her hand pulsed-alive, ancient, hers.

Her bloodline remembered her.

And the shadows did too.

She stood her ground.

Hair wild. Heart shaking. Soul on fire.

"I'm not running," she said.

And the thing in the mist came for her.