The Last Whisper of the Gryphon King (Chapter 1)
Chris ran a calloused thumb over the fine-grained paper, the scent of ink and age a comforting presence in his small study. The map spread before him was of his own making, detailing the foothills south of the Ironwood, a region known for its unpredictable storms and stubborn lack of interesting geographical features. He was a cartographer, a chronicler of the known world, and in a realm that had long ago dismissed magic as folklore, his work felt solid, reliable. It was a world of measurable distances, predictable altitudes, and boundaries you could draw with a pen.
Outside, however, the world was anything but reliable. Wind howled around his sturdy cottage, tucked away on the edge of the aforementioned foothills. Rain hammered against the shutters like an angry fist. The storm, unusually fierce even for this region, had caught him unawares, forcing him to abandon his planned surveying trip and hunker down indoors. A large branch crashed against the roof, making the old timbers groan.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He disliked being idle. He disliked the raw, untamed power of nature that refused to be neatly inscribed onto parchment.
A sudden, searing flash of light split the darkness outside, followed milliseconds later by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the cottage to its foundations. Chris jumped, scattering his pens. He walked to the reinforced shuttered window, peering through a crack. He saw only a brief, lingering afterimage of impossible brightness, a light that felt… wrong. Not like lightning. More… contained. Focused.
Curiosity, a trait essential to a cartographer, warred with his innate caution. As the immediate fury of the storm seemed to momentarily abate, replaced by a heavy, soaking rain, the strange light lingered in his mind. Had something fallen? Something unusual?
Against his better judgment, Chris grabbed his sturdy cloak and a lantern. He had to see. Mapping the unknown was his profession, wasn’t it? Even if the unknown appeared to defy natural explanation.
He stepped outside into the wet, cold air. The wind had died down, but the rain was relentless. He followed the direction where he’d seen the light, moving carefully over the sodden ground, the beam of his lantern cutting a weak path through the downpour.
He didn’t have to go far. Just beyond the small copse of pines separating his land from the deeper wilderness, he found her.
She was lying amidst splintered branches and scorched earth, a dark, unnaturally shaped impact crater surrounding her slight form. She was dressed in strange, flowing robes, ripped and muddy. Her hair, a startling silver-gold even in the dim light, was plastered to her face and shoulders. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and blood stained the front of her garment.
Chris knelt beside her, his heart hammering. She was human, wasn’t she? She looked human. But the scene… the impossible light, the crater with no sign of a meteorite… it felt deeply wrong.
He gently checked for a pulse. It was faint but there. As he did, her eyes fluttered open.
They were the colour of molten gold, intense and piercing even in her weakened state. They focused on him, confusion and fear swirling within them, quickly replaced by a flash of something that looked like regal impatience.
“You,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but with an underlying strength that belied her condition. “A human? Where… where is Sky Peak? What is this place?”
Chris, pragmatic to his core, blinked at her outlandish questions. “You’re injured,” he said, his voice calm despite his racing thoughts. “My cottage is close. I can help you.”
She pushed weakly against the ground, trying to sit up, groaning in pain. “Help me? You cannot help me! I am Lyra! King of Aeridor! I must return!” Her golden eyes blazed with a desperate fire that seemed too large for her fragile human body. “The Serpent Shadow… they cursed me… took my form… I must break it… save my people…”
Chris stared at her, rain dripping from his nose. King? Aeridor? Cursed? Serpent Shadow? It sounded like something out of the old, discredited folktales. His rational mind screamed impossible. But the evidence before him – the crater, the strange light, the woman’s undeniable presence and those extraordinary eyes – refused to be neatly filed away.
He was a man who dealt in facts, in things that could be mapped and measured. But lying at his feet was something utterly, terrifyingly, impossibly unmappable. And his life, the quiet, ordered life he knew, had just been thrown into a chaos that no chart could ever prepare him for. He had to help her. Even if she was mad. Even if she was something else entirely. He couldn’t just leave her here to die.
“Alright,” Chris said, making a decision that felt both insane and inevitable. He carefully scooped up the injured woman, noting her surprising lightness despite her height. Her golden eyes watched him with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant need. “King Lyra, or just Lyra, let’s get you somewhere dry. We can figure out… Sky Peak… and Serpent Shadows… once you’re safe.”
He turned back towards his cottage, the weight of her slight body in his arms feeling suddenly immense, like he was carrying the weight of an entirely different world.
