22. Lyra
Chapter 22
Lyra
I have been searching Zomea for days, perhaps even weeks now. It’s easy to lose track of time in this forgotten place.
My father’s old palace stands deserted. If it weren’t for Chepi’s constant companionship, I might have succumbed to the solitude, driven mad by the echoing emptiness.
I’m beginning to doubt everything. Are Gholioths even real? The legends of Moirati—the supposed oldest Gholioth to inhabit Zomea—do they hold any truth, or are these creatures mere myths? I came here seeking answers, hoping to find Moirati or another Gholioth who could enlighten me, but so far my search has yielded nothing.
Despite the desolation of this palace, I’ve discovered that Zomea is not entirely abandoned. I’ve encountered many Lycans and a few Sorcerers during my wanderings. However, none have been particularly helpful. It seems most who dwell here are like me, souls adrift, searching for answers, longing for something more.
My father had a purpose here and lived in Zomea as he would have in Eguina. But the others I’ve met are aimless, their lives an endless quest for meaning in the shadows of forgotten magic.
I can hardly believe this place is really the afterlife. What happens to those who don’t make it here? Or those who arrive and then perish—where do they go next? If Zomea was truly the afterlife, surely it would be teeming with souls. Yet it feels deserted. I haven’t even run into Athalda. I wonder what corner of the world she’s causing trouble in now.
Covering the entirety of Zomea seems an impossible task. This place is larger than Eguina, and I am but one person, yet I had hoped to uncover some sign by now. I can’t return to Eguina without understanding my purpose. Deep in my bones, I feel drawn to this place, as if an inexplicable force has been pulling me here for weeks.
I cannot marry Colton or plan to ascend as queen of Cloudrum until I find the answers I seek.
I kick off my shoes and climb into bed next to Chepi, who has already drifted off to sleep. For the first time, perhaps ever, I find myself praying. I pray to Ryella—the Goddess of Darkness and Shadows. I plead with her to send me a sign, anything to guide me, as I’m running out of ideas. My prayers linger in the quiet of the night until at last sleep finds me.
Something’s here! I feel it as a prickle up the back of my neck. I’m standing on a terrace, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. Colton is only a few feet away, his gaze fixed on me, an expectant air about him.
I start walking down what seems like an aisle, but then a voice, delicate yet resonant, whispers in my ear, “I would have helped you long ago. All you had to do was ask.”
I turn to see Ryella, the Goddess of Darkness and Shadows. Contrary to her title, her strawberry hair cascades in vibrant waves around her freckled face, radiant and paradoxically bright. She extends her hand invitingly. As our fingers touch, the terrace warps, dissolving into a dark forest where we stand isolated in an eerie silence.
I release her hand, spinning to face her with a torrent of questions on my lips, but my voice fails me. She places a finger to her lips, silencing the unspoken words. “You know where to find the answers you seek,” she intones mysteriously. “Fear has kept you from the path you must walk. Don’t be afraid, Lyra.”
I shake my head, confusion and denial mingling within. I have no idea what place she speaks of, where the answers lie waiting. As my uncertainty mounts, the forest begins to transform. It’s not merely changing; it’s melting away. The trees contort, the landscape shifts transporting us, and my mind struggles to grasp the surreal vision.
Once the world settles, Ryella smiles and points behind me. I turn slowly, and there they stand—the gates. Drawn by an inexplicable force, I approach them, each step resonant with foreboding. When I’m close enough, I extend a trembling hand and let my fingers caress the cold bars of the gates.
As soon as my fingers brush the cold iron, a force from within awakens, resonating deep in my core. My hand clasps around the bar uncontrollably, gripping it as if magnetized by some ancient, unseen power. The pressure intensifies until suddenly it ebbs away, leaving a tingling echo in my palm. With an eerie creak that pierces the heavy silence of the forest, the gate slowly begins to swing open.
I bolt upright in bed, my sudden movement startling both Chepi and myself. A sheen of sweat covers my skin, and I glance down at my hand, which still feels icy from the touch of the iron bars. Midnight mind visions aren’t supposed to occur in Zomea, unless they’re meant to lead you further—beyond the gates my father once said. And Ryella, she was there in my vision, responding to my call.
“Come here, boy. It’s okay. Go back to sleep,” I whisper, pulling Chepi to my chest as I settle back into the bed. His warm presence is comforting against the chill that lingers. “Tomorrow, I think we finally have to visit the one place I’ve been avoiding.” Chepi licks my cheek and nestles into my neck with his wet nose.
After a restless night haunted by visions, I stand before the ancient gates, Chepi by my side. “Well, boy, are you ready for this?” I murmur, his eager yip grounding me slightly. These gates—towering structures, entwined with gnarled roots and decaying branches that seem to pulse with a life of their own, dripping a dark viscous substance—loom before us.
I had thought to avoid this place forever, to bury its memory deep within the recesses of my mind. But it seems the fates have other designs. The gates have infiltrated not only my waking thoughts but also my deepest, darkest dreams.
Now, as I confront them once again, a surprising calm settles over me. There’s an inexplicable rightness in standing here, as if these ominous barriers were meant for me all along.
Upon closer inspection, the gates are a marvel of foreboding artistry. The dark iron from which they are crafted is not merely shaped but seems to be alive with a haunting animation. The bars themselves are twisted and contorted, their surface wrought into intricate, swirling patterns that resemble the agonized movements of souls ensnared in perpetual torment…it’s slightly horrifying to gaze upon.
Each swirl and twist of the metal tells a silent tale of despair, the patterns flowing into each other like a river of lost spirits. The designs are unsettlingly organic, as if the iron itself had once been living entities now transformed and bound into this eternal, metallic form. Shadows seem to flicker and move within the crevices of the designs, as though the souls themselves are still writhing under the gaze of any onlooker.
If this is truly where the gods live like Euric believed, then perhaps these gates stand as a grim testament to the ultimate price of ambition—the tortured souls of those who dared to ascend to divine heights, now forever bound in this iron tapestry of agony. Among these writhing figures, could my father’s soul be entwined?
I step closer, driven by a force I can’t quite understand but cannot resist. This time, as my fingers trace the cold, foreboding metal, there’s no fear, no hesitation.
The gates creak sinisterly, the sound echoing like the world cracking open, as they swing open slowly, inviting—or perhaps daring—me to step beyond.
With a deep breath, I lift Chepi into my arms, and we cross the threshold.