The small house did not look the least bit abandoned. The two pots of gardenias framing the wooden door were freshly watered and at full bloom, the two steps leading to the entrance recently swept and polished. Even a window was open, its bright drapes rippling outwards as if magnetized by the afternoon sun. Yet as far as Lyrena knew, none of the house's residents was among the living any longer.
Amber skirts fluttered around her legs as she paced endlessly, two steps leading her closer to the threshold with her knuckles risen meant for a knock, only to regret her decision and step back anew. It would soon be three years since the death her uncle and aunt, one since the rumour of her cousin's unfortunate end in flames had reached her. In a world so cruel, what is dead may always rise, making a return in wretched form and decay, yet when hers and Celysiel's childhood friend had come to report that the latter was alive, there was no account of necromancy.
Where was courage when it was desired the most? It had taken Lyrena two months to shun hesitation for the sake of this visit, yet now she was unable to knock on that door. Was it fear of disappointment, or shame to face the one to whom she had been unkind to in their younger days?
A creaking sound was heard nearby, making the woman flinch, her elaborate, auburn braid whipping her back. Pure dread washed over for mere seconds as she thought the door in front of her would open, yet she was mistaken. The window of the house to the right opened, a green blanket fluttering to dismiss any dust from it. From the gap stepped forth a woman with cropped, blonde hair and rather long neck. It took her but a moment to notice the uncertain guest, her green eyes shining with recognition. It was mutual.
"Lyrena?" she asked, her voice high-pitched. "By the Sun, Dyandria's niece? Look at how beautiful you've grown!"
Lyrena bowed her head, unable to hold back a wide smile. For years now she had grown accustomed to collecting such comments, though they touched no sense of vanity. True enough, of the three Firetreader girls, she was regarded as the fairest and most graceful by the entire family, yet beauty was hardly everything.
"It has been years, Ylanthe. How is your son?"
The neighbour let the blanket rest, leaning with her elbows over it. "Growing, moving forward. Xerylas has already started his appreticeship as a tailor a while back, he's our pride." she sighed. "Are you here for your cousin? She's never here in the afternoons, I saw her leave not too long ago."
Of that, Lyrena had no doubt. If experience had taughter her anything, it was that every neighbourhood had its own spymistress, the one sitting by the window minding everyone else's business; currently, she was talking to one of these women.
"It's unfortunate." she nodded, not daring to admit slight relief. "Do you know when she'll be back?"
Ylanthe wrinked her nose, wafting her hand. "Who can ever know with that one? Always coming and going." She sighed. "I swear, she lost her way ever since her parents left this world."
"She's-... She's not meant to go anywhere, she's ill." Lyrena stammered, eyes widening in surprise, approaching the window for ease of conversation. "I haven't seen her in years, what has happened?"
The blonde woman merely shook her head, not bothering to conceal her disapproval. "Always back and forth in the Row, Cedris claims she's associated with warlocks and such. Then they said she was supposedly dead, working for that Magistrix and the entire neighbourhood was filled with Spire officials for about a month, evaluating the place, asking us questions..." She leaned a little closer to lower the volume of her voice, while bobbing her head to the direction of the Ashfury residence. "And now she has a man holed up in there."
Lyrena's jaw quivered, though the rest of her body felt numb. Celysiel and warlocks? The Murder Row? It could not be, none of this sounded like her sickly, naive and yet sour cousin with a peculiar fondness for flowers. "Are you sure of all this?"
"Not entirely." the neighbour admitted. "She has however become more bizzare than she was. It is only a blessing her parents can see none of this." Ylanthe straightened her back, pulling her shoulders back. "I did see her arrive with that man though, but haven't seen him leave the house since."
"Was he, uhh, a Farstrider by any chance?" Lyrena squeezed her brain to remember what Alyera had said regarding Celysiel's visits at the Farstrider Retreat to a Captain. "Did he seem lordlike?"
Ylanthe shook her head. "I didn't get a good look of him. He was tall, that is all I know. He might still be in there if you knock."
"I-... Of course. Thank you, but it might be best not to." Lyrena did her best to summon one of her most dashing smiles. "I should try another time."
"It might be best." Ylanthe concurred, though her disappointment was evident. "Make sure to drop by at some point, yes? You brighten the whole place with your presence. My son might wish to say hi as well."
The auburn-haired girl laughted, bowing her head. "I will." she promised.
A false mask, for the smile faded just as soon as she turned around, giving its place to distress. What had become of her cousin, truly?
***
Black vines veiled the entrance of the building, lost somewhere in the overgrowth of the Ghostlands. In vain did the silver moonlight try to pierce through the decaying canopies of the dark forest and bless the forsaken by its former owners residence with its grace. Now it had surrendered to a far darker face.
The shard was small, yet clouded. An eerie mist of white danced within, where a reflection was meant to present itself. It cut through the skin of two pale fingers, crimson pouring. Yet where it touched the fragment of the mirror, the mist rose beyond the glass as if to claim the blood, leaving no trace of it upon the glass.
The vines encompassing the old building required by the taste. Just as soon as the trespasser offered the gift, the signature of the only mortal they were meant to let pass, they receded like slithering snakes, revealing the worn metallic door.
A pair of thin, white eyes greeted the pale elf; she stepped inside, for the entrance to be swallowed by the vines anew. Krator stood his vigil upon the silver mirror, its cracks mended by amethyst darklight, like ropes keeping the white vapours swirling within the glass trapped. At its heart, where the fragment was missing coalesced in a storm of yearning, as if anguished for that one piece it had lost.
The silver had nearly been devoured by the tendrils of the Void wrapped all over the frame, feeding power into the mirror. A supicion of wailing arose from its depths, drowned by the eerie atmosphere of the Ghostlands. Eldritch runes, blasphemous in a world ruled by Light, were etched upon the surface.
Holding the shard close, Celysiel tilted her head. In several aspects, this mirror was a fine representation of her soul's damnation. She was aware of the price now. It would always be known only after it had been paid.
Her jade stare was fixated upon the mirror's pallid swirls as she held its missing piece, its very heart, over the locket that become her second own. "Are you pleased?" she whispered to her absent reflection.
A chill rose into the dark chamber, motes of shadow rising from the elf's fingers.
The black vines twitched, recognizing the macabre symphony of their new lifeblood.
"Your wish has come true."
***
The boy stood at the edge of the ring of land hovering into the bleak cosmos, the very edge of the world he had ever known. The abyss waiting below was no different to the darkness he had known his entire life, one with no sun, no stars, only a glimmer of hope in the heart of his universe. He raised his chin, eyes thinning at the blinding brilliance of the beatiful jewel, washed by golden and milky brilliance.
The City of Lights.
An'ton could feel his knees trembling with anticipation. Recalling the Wise Man's words, he held the stone close to his chest with both hands, as if fearful that he would drop it. Its warmth was a veil of encouragement in his heart for this endeavour. At long last, his dream would come true. No more would he be damned in a life of shadows. He would leave it all behind.
Then why do you hesitate?
The voice was soft and gentle, as if carried by absent winds. The boy turned behind him, denying himself the sight of the enthralling city for precious seconds. No one stood in this part of the miserable world but him though; rocks and waste had no voice of their own. Could this be his own thoughts?
He dismissed the concept instantly. No hesitation would blossom in his chest, not when he was so close. He prepared for the first step.
You will regret it.
Below, the abyss moved. It was like black smoke spiraling amidst itself, though never rising from the infinity the universe had granted it. It was nothing more than empty space and yet it spoke, kindness resonating from the depths. An'ton looked down below astonished, his grip around the Wise Man's stone tightening.
"It has been my life's desire to leave it all behind, go where the light shines brightest." he opposed. "How could I ever regret it?"
We tell ourselves we are capable of sacrifice. We tell ourselves each dream, each answer, knowledge is forever worth it. Is it so, truly? Are you aware of what is asked of you?
"I would give it all!" he yelled back. "Anything to know a land enchanting and wonderful!"
And all you leave behind? All you held dear ever since you were born? Would you sacrifice it for a dream of your own?
"I-..."
You may step ahead.
The smoke retred, almost as if parting. Pulse was born from within the stone's depths, a nebulous mass retreating from its depths to grant An'ton his first push towards the city of his dreams. And yet it felt as if a fragment of its warmth had been lost forever. As something within him had perished.
Go forth. But should you do so, you will not be allowed to regret it. Each sacrifice, no matter how great, willed or otherwise, will hang over your head to remind you of your responsibility. You will not be allowed to regret it. Never look back. It will be a path all yours, lonely as your heart feasts, but full of pain. Do you wish to continue?
The abyss' words shook his resolve. The City of Lights beckoned in the distance, the most beautiful sight in a world that knew only shadow. Yet could he shoulder this burden?
"The heroes of tales show courage and are eventually rewarded." he whispered weakly.
Life is no tale. Step forth and you will regret it. All you love will be no more.
His legs moved, not forward, but back. The longer he now stared at the city, the more it frightened him. "What must I do?"
Cast your dreams down below. Let at least one soul know salvation.
The last words of the abyss he did not understand, yet An'ton found ease in dismissing the stone into its onyx vapours. Eagerly did the dark accept his offering, a dying dream that would condemn him to an awful fate no more. And the boy forgot, he dismissed it all from his mind as he ran back to his village, to the life he had known.
Behind him forever would the City of Lights lie. They say one day its brightness faded, claimed by the stars which eventually cast their greatness upon An'ton's world. The fleeting dream would remain nothing more but this, a distant memory.
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