Four Keys to Erasmuth: Lyra Okenas

Chapter Seven

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Village of End, Riet gently ushered a weary Lyra homeward. The vibrant marketplace had dissolved, replaced by the soft glow of lanterns peeking from windows as villagers gathered for their evening meals.

Lyra, drained from the momentous awakening of her powers as a Keeper, felt the weight of the world settle upon her shoulders. Her voice, barely a whisper, carried a question to Riet, "How long does it typically take for a Magi to master a source?"

Riet, his kind eyes reflecting the fading embers of the day, paused their journey. He turned to face her, his gaze steady and reassuring. "The time it takes to master a source, Lyra," he began, his voice low and filled with wisdom, "depends on the unique dance between the Magi and the source itself. Some, like flickering candles in the wind, may struggle to grasp its essence, while others, like raging storms, may be consumed by its power and never truly tame it."

A hint of amusement flickered across Riet's face as he continued, "But fear not, young Keeper. For you have not been handed this burden alone. I, known to train Magi with the speed of lightning, shall be your guide. Together, we will unlock the mysteries of the water source within you and harness its power for the good of our people."

As Lyra walked home, her mind danced with questions. Did this gentle, caring Riet, who seemed so intent on protecting her, hold the same darkness within him as the powerful, vengeful Riet she'd read about in Bergum's journal? Were they one and the same, or two separate souls inhabiting the same body?

At her doorstep, Riet stopped, his gaze heavy with concern. "Here you go, my dear Lyra," he said, his voice softened with remorse. "I will return tomorrow, though not as early as today. My apologies for my abruptness and hastiness. Your awakening, and your well-being, are of utmost importance to me."

His words, tinged with a hint of vulnerability, surprised Lyra. Could this man, who spoke of her well-being, truly be the same one who walked a path of violence in Bergum's past?

"I apologize as well, Riet," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of trepidation. "Trust does not come easily to me, and solitude is my preferred companion. Adjusting to all of this will require time."

"Remember, my dear," Riet said, his smile genuine and warm despite the fading light. "Never forget this village, these people. They care for you, Lyra, even in the darkest of nights."

He turned, his silhouette fading into the twilight as he walked toward the village square. "I shall return early tomorrow, and we shall make many more journeys to the river. Eat a hearty breakfast and rest well, young Keeper."

With those words, Riet disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lyra alone on the doorstep of her quiet, empty home.

Stepping through the threshold of her home, Lyra was struck by the unfamiliar stillness. The silence echoed in the empty rooms, a stark contrast to the usual symphony of rustling papers and her own quiet murmurs of research. Today, she realised with a jolt, she hadn't worked at all.

Panic threatened to rise, but then, like a wave receding back into the ocean, it was replaced by a cold, hard truth. The Archives, her haven of knowledge and solitude, soon wouldn't be her responsibility. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of apprehension and an unsettling freedom.

Taking a deep breath, she reached into her pocket and felt the reassuring warmth of the Key nestled against her skin. Its smooth surface, imbued with ancient magic, calmed the churning emotions within her.

As she turned towards her room, her gaze fell upon Bergum's book, lying abandoned on the floor. It had been left open to the very page she had been reading that morning, the words hanging in the air like unanswered questions.

Lyra sat down and grabbed the book and made herself comfortable, the evening was still young and she had time to read more.

"Fate plays tricks, young Keeper. A hundred years ago, the suggestion of becoming an Archivist would have earned you a blast of arcanic fury. Now, here we are, two decades deep in quiet solitude, surrounded by records of seemingly little consequence: bastards, lineages, taxes. Yet, beneath these layers of insignificance lies the truth of Marseuth, the building blocks of history hidden in plain sight.

How wrong are those who believe themselves powerful! We, the Keepers, hold no sway over the realm, the world, life or death. That power belongs to the Sources, fickle forces of immense power. Water, ever-yielding, offers its blessings to those who seek them. But fire? Earth? These are vengeful forces, harboring anger and resentment.

The archives hold no knowledge of this truth, only the dry records of self-proclaimed masters. Yet, the truth is undeniable. The Magi, once conduits of immense power, are fading, their connection to the Sources withering with each passing year. Their magic, once a raging inferno, now flickers like a dying ember. The Conter, the very heart of their power, shrinks, taking their magic with it. The LockSmiths, desperate to rekindle the flame, search tirelessly for Keepers, for those who may hold the key to restoring balance.

The world forgets the fear of Keepers, replaced by a thirst for experimentation and manipulation. Be vigilant, Keeper, and conceal your true nature with unwavering care.

Fate gifted me with an uncommon blessing: my awakening as a Keeper came in my twilight years, after I was deemed unworthy of magic's embrace. This late bloom allowed me to mask my abilities as mere eccentricities of an aging Magi, a disguise that permits me to pen this message, though its abruptness and disjointed nature may be jarring.

How does one write a book for someone they have never met, whose very existence remains a mystery? Grow your talents, Keeper, but do so in the shadows. Though this may seem contradictory, hearken to the whispers of the Sources. Keep an open mind and an open heart, for within you lies the potential to rewrite the very fate of our world. Remember, young Keeper, the weight of our future rests upon your shoulders." 

"Bleak and depressing as ever, thanks Bergum," Lyra sighed, shoving the dusty tome aside. Her thoughts tumbled like scattered leaves, chaotic and nonsensical. Leaving her haven was a sudden, jarring decision, yet necessary. The Elders needed notifying, Matt and his mother warranted farewells, and a visit to Mira felt like an unscaled mountain of gratitude.

When Olivia had retreated to her well-earned retirement, Mira, the lone villager, had dared to breach the hallowed halls of the Archives. Her soft smile and gentle cadence initially fueled Lyra's anger. Time, a patient weaver, mended those frayed edges. Lunches were shared, quiet conversations whispered amidst the rustle of parchment, and built a bridge of acceptance. Soon, a longing for Mira's company flickered within Lyra, drawing her gaze towards the familiar wooden door in the mornings.

Goodbyes could wait. A week. Seven sunrises until the village walls would shrink behind her, a horizon of uncertainty stretching before. With a grim determination, Lyra marched into her room. Packing, a mundane task, suddenly felt like a battle against the looming deadline. Each folded garment, each tucked book, was a brick in the bridge she'd build to the future, a bridge away from everything she knew.