The ruins still whispered.
A low hum trembled through the cracked marble, threading through silence like an echo of something the world had long forgotten. The air tasted faintly of smoke and rust, and every step Lyra took stirred the dust of memories too old to name.
Draven walked ahead, his silhouette carved against the faint glow of dying embers. The last remnants of his fire flickered weakly around him—not enough to burn, but enough to remind the darkness that light had once existed.
For a long while, neither spoke. Only the distant wind, sliding through hollow arches, whispered between them.
"It wasn't supposed to vanish," Lyra said finally, her voice soft and fragile. The faint red shimmer reflected in her eyes, as if she were trying to hold onto the last piece of light before it faded completely.
Draven didn't turn. His words, when they came, were rough—like gravel and grief bound together.
"Nothing stays, Lyra. Not here. Not even color."
He knelt by a cracked stone where the crimson flame had once blazed. His fingers brushed soot, and for a fleeting instant, a spark answered him—red, wild, alive—before dying again.
Lyra crouched beside him.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
He gave a faint smirk, not looking up. "Which part?"
"The fire," she whispered. "The one that keeps burning, even when there's nothing left to burn."
He fell silent. When he finally spoke, his words felt like they had been buried for years.
"It's not pain," he said slowly. "It's remembering."
Something in his tone made her breath hitch. The hum beneath her skin began to pulse faster, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat—or perhaps the echo of it.
Then, suddenly—she saw.
A vision flared behind her eyes: a boy, younger, standing in a field ablaze with crimson light. His hands outstretched. A girl's laughter rang like chimes—then the sky split with screams, and red swallowed everything.
Lyra gasped, stumbling backward, clutching her head. The ruins warped. Smoke twisted into faces; whispers became screams.
Draven spun toward her, catching her wrist before she could fall. His grip was hot, grounding her in the present.
"Don't," he said sharply. "Don't look too deep."
His voice was steady, but a tremor hid beneath it.
"It's not me you'll find there," he murmured.
Her voice shook. "Then who?"
He met her gaze—eyes molten, sorrow barely contained.
"Someone I couldn't save."
The wind rose suddenly, carrying ashes into spiraling patterns. The hum beneath their feet deepened, resonating with his confession. The ruins trembled; light seeped through cracks in the floor.
From the dust, something began to form—a faint red glow, rhythmic as a heartbeat. The ashes lifted, gathering midair until they shaped a symbol: a spiral flame enclosed by wings.
Lyra stared, eyes wide.
"Draven… what is that?"
He froze, recognition dawning across his face.
"That mark," he said quietly. "It was in my dreams. In every vision I could never understand."
The ashes pulsed brighter, and the air filled with a melodic whisper. A woman's voice—distant, ancient, like wind through glass—spoke softly:
"One echo awakens another."
The red light burst outward for a heartbeat, brushing Lyra's face like a breath of warmth—then vanished.
Silence fell again. The ruins looked the same—gray, dead—but something beneath had shifted.
Lyra turned to Draven. "What does it mean?"
He shook his head slowly. "It means we're not alone."
They walked on. Each step felt heavier with questions and with the unspoken rhythm guiding them. The hum in Lyra's chest no longer frightened her—it sang, faint and steady, like a promise that refused to fade.
Above, the ruined skyline trembled faintly. For a brief moment, the horizon shimmered—like a curtain being lifted.
Somewhere far away, beneath a frozen sky, a girl with silver-blue hair awoke from her long sleep. Her eyelashes glittered with frost; her first breath turned to mist.
She rose slowly, surrounded by a world of ice and silence. Her first tear froze before it fell, catching the weak light like sapphire glass.
She didn't know why she whispered the name.
"Lyra…"
But the word carried across the distance—through frost and flame, through dust and darkness—until it reached the night where two wanderers walked toward a dawn the world had long forgotten.
And somewhere, the hum of crimson echoed again, waiting for the next heartbeat to answer.