Four Keys to Erasmuth: Lyra Okenas

Chapter Eight

Instant silence. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air heavy with anticipation. The water, still moments ago, pulsed with a sudden life, a low hum vibrating against her skin. It was a song, somber yet strangely alluring, calling to her with an achingly familiar melody.

"Join us," the water whispered, a voice like the echo of a child's plea. "Heal us, young Keeper. Mend the broken land. Beware the man of two faces. Find what is fractured, what is lost. Rejoin us."

Lyra's brow furrowed, a tremor of unease tracing down her spine. "Rejoin who?" she whispered back, her voice barely audible in the sudden hush. The confusion gnawed at her like a hungry beast, intensified by the ethereal chorus rising from the water.

"Rejoin us with your sisters, Keeper," the whispers swelled, a multitude of young voices weaving a haunting melody. Each voice carried a yearning, a weight of ancient sorrow.

The sheer force of it all knocked Lyra off guard. With a startled yelp, she snatched her hand from the cup, sending it clattering to the floor. Water splashed, staining the wooden planks, as the runes flickered a final time before dissolving into the still pool.

Lyra's breath hitched. She pulled her other hand away from the Key, the absence of power chilling her like an icy wind. Her mind reeled, a whirlwind of questions. She stumbled to her feet, desperate to escape the room, the water, the chilling silence.

Goosebumps prickled her skin. The river water, she thought, it was different. Vastly different. Both came from the same mountain stream, yet the voices... they were worlds apart. The river, ancient and wise, spoke of healing and growth, its voice somber but deep with knowledge, flowing like the current itself.

The water from the cup, it was young, frantic, a terrified whisper. The contrast was stark, a puzzle churning in her head, making it spin.

Lyra shook her head, the chilling unease from the water clinging to her skin. She needed to be around people, the suffocating silence of the Archives making her crave company. Today, she'd visit Mira, offer the goodbyes and thanks she hadn't uttered in three years.

Stepping outside, the sun's heat instantly chased away the goosebumps. Her gaze drifted to the sky. Riet's words about the sources being picky echoed in her mind. What was fire like? Did it have a voice, ancient and unyielding like the river, but crackling with raw power?

A shiver ran down her spine. Playing with power wasn't worth the unpleasant experience just moments ago. Mira was waiting, and Lyra knew she should focus on her path, not this dangerous allure.

The Key pulsed against Lyra's chest, a seductive thrum that whispered, "Just a touch. See what wonders await." With each step towards Mira's, the pull grew stronger, nearly irresistible.

She gritted her teeth, chanting under her breath the words Olivia had taught her as a child, when shadows danced and fears lurked. "My dearest shadow," the words echoed in her mind, "patterns are everywhere. When in doubt, look for the pattern!"

This mantra had guided Lyra through countless childhood trials, Olivia's playful tests of runes, lineages, and the hidden logic of the Archives. "How do you find tomes about forgotten kings?" Olivia would ask, her eyes twinkling. "Look for the pattern, Lyra."

Water, she realized, was a pattern. It had spoken to her twice, a whisper in the runes and a chilling echo in the cup. And the runes themselves? They were everywhere, a language woven into the very fabric of the world. But what of their specific meaning? She squinted at the empty cup, the river's movement too fast to discern a pattern. Her mind churned, the questions swirling like leaves in a storm, until her feet stopped before Mira's simple cottage, its thatched roof a welcoming beacon.