A Glimpse of the Past
The academy’s nights were long and restless for Eryon, each one stretching into an endless haze of unease. The shadows that crept along the stone walls seemed alive, whispering secrets just beyond his grasp. The suffocating traditions of the vampire realm weighed heavily on him, a constant pressure that threatened to break the fragile veneer of normalcy he and Lyra struggled to maintain. Beneath it all, his wolf stirred uneasily, a constant reminder of the precarious tightrope they walked.
After the harrowing tension of the Festival of Blood, Eryon sought escape, craving solitude to process the lingering sense of dread. The academy’s library, a massive, labyrinthine sanctuary of knowledge, became his refuge. Its towering shelves, crammed with ancient tomes and forbidden texts, seemed a world apart from the blood-soaked rituals outside. Here, the flickering candlelight and the scent of aged parchment created an illusion of peace.
Wandering through the dimly lit aisles, Eryon let his fingers trail absently over the spines of the books, their leather covers rough against his skin. His aimless search led him deeper into the library’s forgotten corners, where dust coated untouched shelves. It was here, tucked away and seemingly forgotten, that he noticed something strange—a small, weathered wooden box wedged between two oversized tomes.
It looked out of place, its surface etched with strange, swirling symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the flickering light. Curiosity flared, cutting through his exhaustion. Carefully, he pulled the box free, the weight of it heavier than he expected. His fingers traced the markings, the symbols cool to the touch, before he unlatched the lid and eased it open.
Inside lay an artifact—a smooth, black orb etched with glowing veins of silver that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive. The moment his fingers brushed against it, a surge of energy coursed through him, sharp and electric, stealing his breath. The library’s soft glow dimmed, and the world around him seemed to shift.
The artifact pulsed again, stronger this time, and a vivid vision flooded his mind.
He stood in a forest bathed in pale moonlight, the trees ancient and towering, their branches forming a canopy that stretched endlessly above him. In the clearing before him stood two figures, their silhouettes unmistakably familiar. The man and woman turned, and Eryon’s breath caught in his throat when he saw their eyes—silver, just like his own.
The woman’s face was etched with worry, her voice trembling as she called out into the night. “Lyra! Eryon!”
Beside her, the man growled low, his fists clenched tightly. “We’ll find them,” he vowed, his voice resolute. “No matter how far we have to go.”
The realization hit Eryon like a blow. These were his parents, the faces from his deepest, most fragile memories, long buried beneath the weight of his life at the academy. He reached out to them, a desperate need to bridge the impossible distance.
But the vision shifted abruptly. The forest darkened, shadows consuming the moonlight until the clearing was plunged into oppressive blackness. The orb in the vision began to glow violently, its veins pulsing with an angry, red-hot light. A booming voice echoed through the void, deep and foreboding.
“They are coming.”
The words reverberated through Eryon, chilling him to his core. Before he could fully grasp their meaning, the vision shattered, leaving him gasping for air. The library reappeared around him, dim and unchanged, but the artifact in his hands was hot to the touch. Its light dimmed, the silver veins fading into darkness as it grew still.
Eryon’s hands trembled as he returned the orb to its box, shutting the lid firmly as though to lock away the unsettling power within. His mind raced with questions, each one heavier than the last. Who were the figures that had invaded his vision? What were they searching for? And the voice—its chilling warning still echoed in his mind.
They are coming.
Who were “they,” and what danger did they pose to him and Lyra? Eryon had no answers, only a gnawing certainty that the artifact, the vision, and the ominous words were all connected to a storm that was far closer than he had dared imagine.
