Flight Through The Outlands
1763 Words
The forest beyond the ruin was quiet. Too quiet.
Lyra's boots crunched over dead leaves as she slipped through the gnarled trees, moving on instinct alone. The sky alone was a dull gray, veined with fractures where the Veil shimmered--a constant reminder of the barrier that separated their world from... whatever waited beyond.
Her satchel felt heavier with every step, as though the shard inside was pulling her somewhere.
She finally stopped by a half-buried stone pillar, catching her breath. The moment she sat, the air thickened,dense with static. The shard's pulse intensified, syncing with her heartbeat.
And then, the world shifted.
Colors drained from the forest. Sound faded to a low hum,like the breath of something ancient stirring in the depths of the earth. Lyra shot to her feet, dagger drawn, but the world around her had already dissolved.
She stood in an endless expanse of glassy water, the sky a swirling storm of violet and silver. The horizon was a cracked mirror, reflecting thousands of fractured worlds.
Above her, the Veil hung like a wounded serpent-splintered, bleeding light.
"What is this...?" she whispered.
"You are within the Shard's memory."
The voice was not human. It was layered, vast both everywhere and nowhere.
Lyra spun around. No one.
"I didn't ask to be here".
Child of the Shard.
Child of the Broken Circle.
The Veil knows you.
"I don't care," she snapped. "I don't want your prophecies. I just want to survive."
A shape coalesced before her--a figure wrapped in shadow, its face obscured, but its presence vast. it gestured, and the mirror like water beneath her feet rippled, images surfacing in fleeting flashes.
-A city aflame, Silver Creed banners torn to shreds.
- A blade made of light, shattering the sky.
-Kael, kneeling in chains before a faceless king.
- Herself, standing at the edge of a torn Veil, her mark glowing like molten gold.
"The Creed fears what you are," the voice said.
"Because they know the Veil does not serve them. It serves the one who dares to break it."
Lyra's throat tightened. "I'm no hero."
"You are the blade. Not by choice. By design."
The figure's hand extended, pointing toward her satchel. The shard within flared, rising into the air, hovering before her. Threads of light unraveled from it, latching onto her mark.
A burning sensation spread through her chest-- not painful, but like her blood had remembered something she hadn't.
"The Veil fractures. Soon, what lies beyond will bleed into this world. You can stand against it. Or you can be devoured by it."
Lyra's fists clenched. She'd spent her whole life being told what she was. A curse. A mark of ruin. Now this...thing wanted to shape her into another blade for someone else's war.
"i don't take orders from whispers and ghosts," she said coldly. "If the world is going to bleed, maybe it's time it learns how that feels."
The Shard pulsed, brighter, almost....approving.
The figure began to fade, its voice trailing off. "Then wield the shard, Lyra Vale. Tear the truth from its cage."
The glassy world shattered like brittle ice.
Lyra staggered, breathless, back into the forest, collapsing to her knees. Her satchel lay open, the shard gleaming softly in the afternoon light.
Around her, the air was still, but it felt changed--like the forest was holding its breath.
Her mark burned faintly beneath her scarf. Not painful. Alive.
Lyra rose slowly, dusting herself off.
The Creed wanted her dead. The Veil wanted her broken. But if both sides feared what she would become...maybe it was time she learned why.
She glanced toward the distant silhouette of a fortress spire--the edge of Creed-controlled territory.
If you want me, come find me," She muttered.
And she walked.
The Outlands were dying.
Lyra picked her way through the skeletal forest, the earth brittle beneath her boots. Once, villages had thrived here, farmers trading grain and hides in bustling markets. Now, most of the homes were blackened husks, their fields swallowed by weeds. The Silver Creed had drained the land dry, taxing the poor until they fled or starved, leaving behind ghosts and silence.
She adjusted the strap of her satchel, the shard’s faint glow leaking through the leather. It throbbed like a second heartbeat, its rhythm never quite matching her own. She pulled the scarf tighter around her collarbone, hiding the mark that branded her as cursed.
The further she traveled, the more signs of the Creed’s grip she saw. Wooden posts with parchments nailed to them: lists of names, faces drawn in charcoal. Fugitive Veilborn. She recognized two of them—boys she’d known from the outskirts, both dead now. The posters claimed they’d been “purified.” Lyra spat into the dirt. Purified was just the Creed’s sanctimonious word for execution.
Her hand brushed the dagger at her hip, more for comfort than defense. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe steel alone would protect her if the Creed caught her. Still, the familiar weight steadied her nerves.
Keep moving. Keep breathing. Survive. That had always been her way.
She skirted a cluster of abandoned cottages, windows gaping like blind eyes. Chickens clucked faintly somewhere in the brush—a miracle in itself. She wondered how long it would be before Creed soldiers discovered them and slaughtered the birds for sport.
Her stomach growled, and she fished a stale heel of bread from her pouch. She chewed mechanically, her gaze drifting to the horizon. Above the withered treeline, the Veil shimmered—a cracked dome of light, humming faintly like a great glass bell. It had hung there her whole life, beautiful and terrifying, the sky’s wound that never healed. Now, after the shard, she could feel it thrumming in her bones, as if it were alive and aware of her.
“Perfect,” she muttered, tossing the last crumb aside. “As if I needed more eyes on me.”
The shard pulsed in answer.
By midday, she found herself near a village still clinging to life. Smoke rose from thin chimneys, and children darted between huts, their laughter brittle but real. For a moment, Lyra considered slipping in—stealing food, trading scavenged trinkets. But then she saw the silver banners.
Creed Sentinels lined the square, armored in polished steel, visors gleaming in the sun. They questioned villagers one by one, lifting chins, pulling scarves aside, searching for the Veilborn mark. A woman clutched her child close as a soldier yanked down the boy’s collar. The boy’s skin was clear. For now. The woman sagged in relief.
Lyra’s stomach turned.
She ducked back into the brush before any watchful eyes could catch her. Her throat tightened as the shard vibrated against her ribs. She didn’t need its warning; she’d lived long enough to know what happened to Veilborn caught by the Creed.
And the hunt was only tightening.
By nightfall, Lyra reached a ravine carved by an old river. The stars flickered faintly above, half-swallowed by the Veil’s shimmer. She crouched at the edge, running her fingers along the cracked stone. If she followed the ravine, she could skirt the patrol roads and find shelter in the cliffs. Safe enough for the night.
But as she swung down, boots scraping rock, a low howl split the air.
Her blood froze.
Not wolves. The sound was sharper, metallic—the hunting hounds of the Creed.
She scrambled down the ravine wall, heart pounding, pressing herself into the shadows. Voices echoed faintly overhead, distorted by helmets.
“Tracks lead this way.”
“Chain-Wardens said the girl was sighted near the ruins.”
“She’s close. Spread out.”
Wardens. Not ordinary Sentinels. These were the Creed’s best hunters—trained, relentless, equipped with relic-forged weapons that could pierce even Veilborn flesh. Lyra had heard stories of them running fugitives for days without rest.
She pressed a hand to her satchel. The shard burned hot, warning her. Too late.
Shadows moved above, then slid down the ravine walls with practiced ease. Four Sentinels, helms faceless, blades glinting. Behind them came a lean man in blackened armor, a chain wrapped across his chest like a serpent. His hounds padded beside him—hulking beasts with steel muzzles and eyes glowing faintly violet. They sniffed the air, then growled, snapping their jaws.
The Warden smiled beneath his hood. “She’s here.”
Lyra bolted.
The chase was chaos. Her boots tore over jagged rock, the shard pulsing wildly at her side. The hounds snarled, closing in, claws scraping stone. Arrows hissed past her head, shattering against the ravine walls.
She ducked, vaulted over a fallen log, scrambled upward, and kept running. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. But she couldn’t stop. Not here. Not now.
She slipped, caught herself, spun around, and flung a rock at the nearest hound. It bounced harmlessly off its muzzle. The beast lunged, jaws snapping—
—and an arrow whistled from the shadows, striking the hound clean through the throat.
The creature collapsed with a strangled yelp. The others snarled, ears twitching.
From the ridge above, a cloaked figure leapt down, blade flashing silver in the moonlight.
Kael Ardyn.
His strike was swift, clean, severing a Sentinel’s weapon arm before the man even raised his shield. The Warden cursed, pulling his hounds to heel.
“Stand down!” Kael barked, voice ringing with command. “The girl isn’t your quarry.”
The Warden’s eyes narrowed. “Orders say otherwise, Sir Ardyn. Step aside.”
“I said, stand down.” His tone was steel. Authority.
For a moment, the ravine stilled. The Wardens hesitated, caught between duty and rank. Kael’s hand tightened on his blade. His eyes flicked to Lyra, then back to them.
The Warden clicked his tongue, a humorless smile spreading across his face. “Very well. For now.” He tugged the chains. The remaining hounds growled but retreated, shadows melting back into the night. “But she won’t run forever.”
When they were gone, silence pressed down. Lyra sagged against the ravine wall, panting.
Kael cleaned his blade with practiced ease. His gaze met hers, steady, unreadable. “You’re welcome.”
Lyra scowled. “I didn’t ask you to play hero.”
“You’d be dead if I hadn’t.”
“I’ve managed just fine on my own.”
“Not anymore,” he said simply. And in his tone was something that made her skin prickle—not arrogance, but certainty. As if he knew the world had just shifted under her feet.
- Writer
