The Dying Arcane

Ronan's blade hovered over the magical bindings around Lyara's wrists. The sigils flickered, as if resisting his presence.

A single strike could shatter them.

But should he?

His grip tightened. He had seen enough betrayal to know that power came with a cost. Lyara had been imprisoned here for a reason.

But he also knew that standing still meant falling behind.

"One wrong move," he warned, "and I'll put you back in chains myself."

Lyara smirked. "Fair enough."

With a swift motion, Ronan brought his blade down.

The bindings cracked. Magic surged outward, sending a shockwave through the temple. The ancient walls groaned in protest as dust rained from the ceiling. The sigils faded, their power finally broken.

Lyara exhaled deeply, rubbing her wrists as the restraints dissolved. A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face.

"Better," she murmured.

Ronan didn't lower his guard. "Now tell me why you were bound here."

She met his gaze, amusement dancing in her violet eyes. "Because I refused to kneel."

"To whom?"

Her expression darkened. "To those who saw magic as a relic to be discarded. I fought against them. I tried to stop them before it was too late. And for that, they silenced me."

Ronan frowned. "If you were so dangerous, why not just kill you?"

Lyara chuckled softly. "Because even those who fear magic still crave it." She gestured toward the ruined city. "I was their key to unlocking forbidden knowledge. They sealed me here, hoping one day they could control me. But time has made fools of them."

She stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp. "Now, Malakar and his kind grow stronger. The world shifts, and soon, there will be no room for those of us who still carry magic's flame."

Ronan studied her carefully. She was dangerous. There was no doubt about that.

But he had come here searching for answers. For strength.

And in Lyara… he saw both.

"Where do we start?" he asked.

A slow smile spread across her lips. "With a weapon."

She turned toward the far end of the temple, where a sealed doorway loomed. Ancient runes pulsed with arcane power.

"Beyond this door," she continued, "lies something even Malakar's forces have not yet found. A blade forged in the old world, before magic began to fade. One of the last true relics of the arcane age."

Ronan's eyes flickered with intrigue.

A weapon that could rival Malakar's growing might?

It was worth the risk.

"Then let's get it," he said.

Lyara's smirk widened. "Not so fast."

She lifted her hand, and the air shimmered with unseen energy. The runes along the door glowed brighter, reacting to her presence.

Then, from the darkness beyond—something moved.

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the chamber.

The temperature dropped.

Ronan drew his sword as a monstrous figure emerged from the shadows. Its form was twisted, its body wrapped in chains that hissed with dark energy.

Lyara sighed. "Of course they left a guardian."

The creature let out a low snarl, its glowing eyes locking onto them.

Ronan smirked, rolling his shoulders.

"Good," he muttered. "I was starting to get bored."

With that, the beast lunged.

And the battle for the past began.