Lyra lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as restlessness gnawed at her. She turned her head toward the wall clock hanging above her desk, its hands illuminated faintly in the dim light. The time read 11:30 p.m. Her family had returned home barely thirty minutes ago, yet she felt as though she hadn’t rested at all. No matter how she adjusted her position, sleep seemed elusive.
With a soft sigh, Lyra pushed aside her blanket and sat up. Maybe a warm glass of milk would help, she thought. Quietly, she padded across her room, careful not to wake her parents, and made her way downstairs.
The kitchen was shrouded in stillness as Lyra opened the refrigerator door. A soft glow spilled out, casting long shadows along the tiled floor. She was just reaching for the milk when a faint whisper sent a chill down her spine.
“Lyra.”
She jolted, withdrawing her hand from the carton. Quickly closing the refrigerator door, she turned her head toward the sound, her eyes scanning the darkened kitchen. “Mom? Is that you?” she called out softly.
Silence greeted her, heavy and unbroken. The house remained eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Unease prickled at her senses as she glanced toward the living room. Deciding to dispel the shadows, she stepped forward and turned on the daylight lamp, flooding the room with a warm, golden light.
“Lyra.” The whisper came again, clearer this time, and unmistakably her own voice.
Her heart raced as she froze in place. The sound had come from the basement. Lyra hesitated, the familiar tug of curiosity battling against a growing sense of dread. Summoning her resolve, she walked toward the basement door, her steps cautious.
The descent was slow. With each creak of the stairs, the air seemed heavier, the whisper reverberating faintly in her mind. When she reached the bottom, her eyes scanned the dimly lit room. Something gleamed faintly on a dusty shelf, drawing her attention.
It was a lyre.
Her mother had a modest collection of lyres, some modern, others historical, but Lyra knew this one wasn’t part of it. The instrument looked ancient, its surface worn and its strings faintly glowing as though alive with a quiet energy.
Compelled by a strange familiarity, Lyra approached it. She knelt, brushing her fingers lightly over the intricate carvings etched into the wood. The tug she felt was undeniable, pulling at something deep within her.
She lifted the lyre carefully, settling it onto her lap. Without even thinking, her hands moved to the strings.
* * *
The morning sun cast a gentle glow over the cemetery, its warmth contrasting with the somber mood that lingered in the air. The burial of Professor Mackenzie had just concluded, and attendees began to quietly disperse, their footsteps soft against the dew-covered grass.
Among those remaining were the people closest to the professor—friends, colleagues, and students who had cherished him deeply. Many stood in silence, their expressions a mix of sorrow and reflection. Tears glistened in the eyes of some, while others wore subdued faces, holding their emotions just beneath the surface.
Jazz lingered near the grave, his gaze distant as he clutched the lapel of his jacket. After a moment, he turned and approached the small group that had formed nearby—Leeland, Keilee, Gabe, and Kenzie.
“Can we talk?” Jazz asked quietly.
The group moved away from the others, seeking a quiet spot where they wouldn’t be overheard. They stopped beneath the shade of an old oak tree, its sprawling branches providing a sense of privacy and a momentary respite from the morning sun.
“Now that we no longer have Professor Mackenzie,” he began, his voice subdued, “how are we to know if a Negative Harmony portal appears?”
Leeland crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the tree trunk. “We don’t,” he replied simply. “But don’t you remember what the Mal’ak leaders told us? It was about twenty years ago when the border of the Negative Harmony was compromised. That’s what allowed the corrupted Mal’aks to start accessing our world by creating portals.”
“But,” Leeland continued, his voice steady, “now that they’re confined to a new border, they won’t be able to create portals to our world anymore. The new containment should hold them.”
“Let’s say they manage to create new portals,” Jazz suggested. “Can they use it to cross into our world? Or At’tar specifically?”
“They can’t,” Leeland replied firmly. “Remember that S’jarre told us Mal’aks can’t enter the portal?”
“Don’t confuse the portal of the Negative Harmony with the portal of the Resonance Key,” Jazz pointed out.
“They still can’t,” Kenzie interjected, stepping closer to the group. “I’ve entered the portal of the Negative Harmony more times than any of you—back when we were corrupted. That’s where we communicated with At’tar.”
“The portal of the Negative Harmony is not the Negative Harmony itself,” Kenzie continued.
Jazz tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”
“Inside the portal of the Negative Harmony is like a realm between realms,” Kenzie explained. “It’s a space that exists between our world and the Negative Harmony. When you enter the portal, your physical body remains at rest—you’re only using your mind. That’s why your mind feels completely drained when you return. The same applies to the corrupted Mal’aks. Their physical bodies aren’t in the portal either.”
“So there really isn’t a way for them to physically enter our world,” Gabe concluded.
Kenzie nodded.
Jazz crossed his arms, exhaling slowly as he absorbed the information. Beside him, Keilee raised an eyebrow and asked, “Why are you asking this?”
“Yesterday, I had a dream,” Jazz began, his voice low and measured. The group turned their full attention to him as he continued. “I was in the Oasis Cavern. The place was untouched by the battle, peaceful even—and I saw Lyra.”
He hesitated for a moment, his expression darkening. “Suddenly,” Jazz went on, his tone growing heavier, “the place turned dark. When I looked at Lyra again, she was gone. Standing where she had been was... a corrupted Mal’ak.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances, but Jazz pressed on, his face grave. “Then, someone shouted, ‘Fallback!’ I turned and saw Enn’ary. We both retreated into a tunnel, and before I knew it, I was in the Waterfall Cavern.”
Jazz’s gaze dropped for a moment, his voice softening as he described the vivid imagery. “In the cavern, I saw six Mal’ak weavers, one from each community, weaving a stone. Their light merged in the center, and then... Al’aric stepped forward. He added his light to the stone.”
He paused, his hands tightening into fists as he delivered the final words. “Then he turned to me and said...”
Jazz looked up, his voice quiet but laden with urgency.
“At’tar is coming.”
“Do you think it means something?” Leeland asked, his gaze fixed on Jazz with concern.
“I’m not sure,” Jazz replied. “I hope not.”
“Maybe, just to be sure, we should tell Mr. Rosco,” Gabe suggested. “Perhaps he could take an extra look at Lyra, keep an eye on her.”
“That’s a good idea,” Keilee agreed, nodding. “And there’s no harm in telling him.”
Suddenly, Leeland’s attention shifted, and he pointed toward the road. “Uh-oh, I think that’s their car,” he said, watching as a car pulled away from the cemetery.
“Maybe I’ll just call Sir Marvin on his phone,” Jazz said quickly, pulling out his phone.
“Okay, for now, let’s just stay in touch,” Keilee said. “Let the group know if anything strange happens.”
* * *
The Rosco family sat down for lunch at a cozy, quiet restaurant, their table near the window offering a view of the bustling street outside. Lyra and her mother were enjoying their meals, their conversation light and easy, but Marvin stood a few feet away, his expression serious as he spoke into his phone. His voice was low, and his brow furrowed as he listened intently.
“Who’s that?” Lilly asked, glancing up at her husband as Marvin returned to the table, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“A client,” Marvin replied curtly, his tone making it clear that whatever was discussed required his full attention.
There was a brief pause before Marvin turned his gaze to Lyra. His expression softened slightly, though his words carried a certain weight. “Honey… if something really strange happens, please tell us.”
Lyra felt a strange unease settle within her, a sensation she couldn’t quite place. She opened her mouth to respond, wanting to share everything—the voice from last night, the lyre, and the overwhelming feeling she experienced when she touched it. But as soon as she tried, something powerful, almost oppressive, seemed to block her thoughts. It was as if an invisible force was holding her back, preventing the words from coming out.
She kept her gaze down, her voice quiet but steady. “Yes, Dad,” she said, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her plate. “Everything is fine.”
But as she spoke, her mind flashed back to the events of last night. Her memory tugged her deep into the moment when she played the lyre.
The instant her fingers made contact with the strings, an intense, powerful force surged through her, entering her fingers and coursing through her entire body. It was unlike anything she had ever felt—dark, overwhelming energy. She saw flashes of horrifying images, twisted and nightmarish, as if something malevolent was merging with her. The sensation was too much to bear, and with a strangled cry, Lyra collapsed, her vision darkening as she lost consciousness.
The memory hit her like a wave, and she blinked rapidly, trying to shake it off. But the weight of it lingered, the feeling of being consumed by something beyond her control.
* * *
The next day, Lyra felt a sudden wave of dizziness as she walked, her surroundings seeming to blur and twist around her. It was strange—she couldn’t remember what had happened just before. All she knew was that she was walking, and the dizziness seemed to be pulling her somewhere she wasn’t sure she was supposed to go.
She glanced down at her feet as they moved steadily up the stairs, as if her body was guiding her without her permission. She didn’t recognize where she was headed, but her steps carried her forward, almost mechanically.
Before she realized it, she found herself standing in front of her parents’ bedroom door. The dizziness began to subside, and clarity returned in an instant. But as she stepped inside, her heart froze.
She found herself standing by their bed, and as she looked down, a sharp fear shot through her spine. In her right hand, she was gripping a knife—its cold, sharp edge dangerously close to her father. It was as if her hand had been ready to strike.
A scream tore from her throat, and the knife slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a loud clank.
The sudden noise, along with her scream, snapped Marvin and Lilly awake. They scrambled to sit up, panic flashing across their faces as they looked at their daughter.
“Lyra! What’s going on?!” Marvin shouted, rushing toward her, but she was already turning, fleeing.
Lyra dashed out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest. She hurried down the stairs, desperate to escape the rising terror inside her. Bursting through the front door, she ran out into the cool morning air, the quiet of the street wrapping around her like a shroud.
Marvin and Lilly quickly followed, calling out for her. But by the time they reached the gate and stepped outside, Lyra was nowhere to be seen. The street was silent, empty, with no sign of their daughter anywhere.
* * *
The wind roared in Jazz’s ears as he leaned forward on his bike, the speed unlike anything most people had seen. He pedaled with a singular focus, his breath coming in quick bursts as the message from Mr. Rosco replayed in his mind. Every second felt like a grain of sand slipping through an hourglass.
The streets blurred past him as he wove through the morning crowd. A delivery truck suddenly pulled into his path. Jazz swerved sharply to the left, the edge of his tire skimming the curb. A bystander gasped, clutching their shopping bag, while others turned to watch, astonished at his sheer velocity.
A group of children playing near the sidewalk pointed and cheered as he sped by, their voices faint beneath the rush of the wind. Jazz didn’t glance back, his eyes locked on the road ahead. A fruit vendor shouted in surprise when Jazz narrowly avoided a toppled crate of apples, his bike tilting at an almost impossible angle before straightening out.
“Watch it, kid!” a man yelled, shaking his fist as Jazz flew past.
Jazz ignored the commotion, his thoughts solely on Lyra.
This was no ordinary ride—it was a race against time, and he couldn’t afford to lose. The familiar streets of the neighborhood blurred together, and as he approached the Rosco residence, his heart pounded harder than ever.
Jazz hopped off his bike, barely taking a moment to catch his breath as he reached the Rosco residence. His hand pressed the doorbell urgently, and within seconds, Mr. Rosco appeared at the gate. Marvin’s expression was a mixture of relief and worry as he unlocked the gate and pushed it open.
“Thanks for coming, Jazz,” Marvin said, his voice steady but lined with concern.
Jazz nodded and said. “No worries, Sir Marvin. Is Lyra back?”
“Yes,” Marvin replied, his tone softening slightly. “Her mother instinctively knew where she went. It was a nearby park—the place she usually goes whenever something is wrong.”
Jazz felt a flicker of relief but noticed the worried look that still lingered on Marvin’s face.
“But,” Marvin continued, his voice tightening, “she locked herself in her room. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
Marvin led Jazz into the house, the faint creak of the front door echoing through the quiet living room. The atmosphere inside was heavy, and Jazz’s eyes were immediately drawn to Mrs. Lilly, who was sitting on the sofa. Her posture was slouched, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her eyes, puffy and red, spoke of the tears she had shed for hours.
When she looked up and saw Jazz, a glimmer of relief flickered in her expression. She stood, offering him a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you for coming, Jazz,” she said softly, her voice hoarse from crying. “I know you’re close to Lyra. If you could… if you could try talking to her?”
Jazz nodded solemnly, his resolve tightening. “Of course, Mrs. Lilly. I’ll do my best.”
Jazz followed Marvin and Lilly up the staircase, each step feeling heavier as they approached Lyra’s room. They stopped at her door, and Jazz took a deep breath before gently knocking.
“Lyra... it’s me, Jazz,” he called softly, his voice calm and steady. “Can we talk?”
Silence greeted him, and he glanced back at her parents, who were standing a few steps behind him, worry etched on their faces. About a minute passed, and just as Jazz raised his hand to knock again, he heard the faint click of the lock turning.
The door creaked open ever so slightly, revealing Lyra’s pale face through the small gap. Her red-rimmed, teary eyes met Jazz’s, and the vulnerability in her gaze made his chest tighten.
“I’m so scared, Jazz,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Let us help you,” Jazz said gently, leaning closer. “Whatever it is, I’ll help you bear it.”
Lyra hesitated for a moment before opening the door fully. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Jazz, sobbing into his shoulder.
“Something is controlling me,” she cried, her voice breaking. “It’s slowly taking over. Whispering thoughts I wouldn’t even want to think. I... I almost killed Dad!”
Jazz froze for a heartbeat, his mind racing to process her words, but he tightened his arms around her, offering silent reassurance. “We’ll figure this out, Lyra,” he said firmly. “You’re not alone.”
* * *
Several minutes later, Lyra sat on the couch in the living room, her face freshly washed and her demeanor noticeably more composed. She took a deep breath, her gaze steady as she looked at her parents and Jazz.
“It seems that the darkness has subsided,” Lyra said. “But maybe only for now.”
“What happened, honey?” Lilly asked, her voice full of concern.
“The night after Professor Mackenzie’s funeral service,” Lyra continued, pausing briefly to gather her thoughts. “I heard a voice calling my name. I followed it, and it led me to the basement.”
She hesitated again, her eyes briefly drifting downward.
“Then I saw a lyre. I’m sure it’s not one of your collections, Mom. I took it and tried playing. After that, darkness overwhelmed me, and I collapsed. Since then, I can’t explain it, but it’s like something inside me is... controlling me.”
Lyra glanced at her father, her eyes full of emotion. “The day you asked me at the restaurant, Dad… I was about to tell you everything, but for some reason, I couldn’t.”
She swallowed hard before continuing, her voice faltering slightly. “This morning, I wasn’t fully aware of what was happening until I found myself standing in front of your bed, holding a knife.”
A shudder ran through her as she closed her eyes, the weight of the words hanging heavy in the room.
“Something sinister is controlling me,” she whispered, finally closing the chapter on her story.
The room fell into a heavy silence as Jazz and the Rosco family exchanged glances. Each of them seemed to be processing the gravity of Lyra’s words in their own way, but there was a shared understanding that something far more complicated was at play.
“This will sound weird, Lyra,” Jazz began, breaking the silence. “But have you seen a portal?”
Lyra’s eyes widened slightly in confusion, and she shook her head. “No… I haven’t.”
“This is entirely different,” Marvin added, his tone filled with concern. He turned to Jazz as he spoke again. “You know… or did Mackenzie or anyone from the Eternal Resonance mention anything like this?”
“No,” Jazz replied. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”
Marvin’s gaze to Lyra, the weight of the situation settling on him. “It’s time for you to know some of the stories we’ve been holding off from you, Lyra.”
Marvin’s voice was steady as he recounted the story to Lyra, while Jazz, seemingly distracted, furrowed his brow in concentration. He pulled out his phone, quickly scrolling through the screen with precision.
Minutes passed as Marvin’s words filled the air, but Jazz remained focused on the information he was finding. The tension in the room built as his fingers flicked through various pages, his expression deepening with worry.
Finally, Marvin finished telling the story, his eyes locking with Jazz’s. There was a moment of silence, then Marvin’s gaze sharpened with concern.
“Jazz,” Marvin said, his voice heavy with curiosity. “What’s the matter? You look so... worried.”
Jazz looked up, his expression tight with a mix of anxiety and disbelief. He took a deep breath before responding.
“I’m researching on lore and possible connections to a lyre,” Jazz explained, his voice low but urgent. He looked at the screen for a moment before continuing.
“A lyre is an instrument connected to a being called...” He paused, the weight of the name hanging in the air. “The Light-bringer.”
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