The forest was never silent.
Even when the skies cracked and the trees began to rot from the inside, there had always been sound—of roots shifting, leaves weeping, shadows whispering.
But now, as Lyra stepped deeper into the cursed woodland, not even her own heartbeat dared to echo.
The dream had guided her here.
Not her dream—Raven's.
And yet she remembered every detail as if she had lived it: the feel of the moss beneath her feet, the ache in her chest, the way the dead god's mouth had looked like a gate more than a grave.
"I shouldn't remember this," she murmured.
Behind her, Raven didn't speak.
He had stopped questioning the way their minds tangled. Each night brought more shared memories, more glimpses of a past neither of them could claim—and each time, it felt less like imagination, and more like remembering something stolen.
The deeper they walked, the more the world forgot itself.
Time here bent like melted glass. One step would stretch seconds into hours, the next would warp the trees around them like ink bleeding through parchment. Lyra focused on Raven's hand in hers—anchor to reality.
Then they reached it.
A clearing that looked too deliberate to be natural. Bones crowned the circle's edges. A stone, jagged and towering, jutted from the earth like a blade buried too deep. And within it—lodged in ancient rock—was a sword.
Not rusted. Not dulled.
Pristine.
As if the world hadn't dared to age it.
Lyra took one step closer. The sword pulsed faintly, as though sensing her.
"It's called Aderyn," she whispered. The name came from nowhere. Or maybe from another life.
Raven tilted his head. "How do you know that?"
"I don't," she said. "I just... do."
The moment her fingers brushed the hilt, the world fractured.
She wasn't in the forest anymore.
She was on a battlefield.
Blood and fire everywhere. Screams. Metal clashing.
And across from her—Raven.
But he wasn't Raven.
His eyes were darker. His armor scorched. He was older, crueler, broken. Yet still him.
He pointed the blade at her chest.
"You betrayed me."
She looked down. Her hands were soaked in blood. Someone else's.
"No," she breathed.
"You always do," he said.
The illusion shattered.
She fell backward, gasping.
Raven caught her before she hit the ground. "What did you see?"
She couldn't meet his eyes. "You. And me. But not... us."
Raven looked at the blade. "It's laced with memory. Our past lives. The prophecy—everything. It's not just a weapon. It's a mirror."
They stood together, facing the sword.
Then Raven touched it.
And vanished.
Lyra screamed.
The clearing fell apart, folding in on itself like paper in fire. Trees crumbled, the sky groaned, and her body refused to move. Magic cracked in her veins like lightning.
"RAVEN!"
No answer.
Not even an echo.
Then—silence again.
But inside her mind, something stirred.
A voice. Not hers. Not Raven's.
"To find what was lost, you must lose again."
She staggered to her feet, heart in her throat.
"Where did you send him?" she cried out to the void. "What do you want from us?"
The sword remained. Still stuck. Still silent.
But blood now coated its hilt.
Not Raven's.
Hers.
She didn't remember being cut. Didn't feel pain.
But the message was clear.
You both belong to the breaking.
She fell to her knees, clutching her chest, feeling something ancient unfurl within her. Not a memory—something worse.
A truth.
They were not chosen by fate.
They were forged by it.
And the gods who forged them were waking up.