'The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.'

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.

In the kingdom of Yrille, a land nestled between the jagged peaks of the Iron Range and the dark reaches of the Evergreen Sea, water had always flowed southward, down from the highlands, carving its way through fields and villages to join the ocean. But on that fateful morning, as dawn broke with an eerie stillness, the river turned against its natural path, surging north as though it had changed its mind about where it was meant to go. The villagers along its banks watched in terrified awe as fish leaped, scales flashing in the new light, their bodies thrashing as they were swept back against their will.

Word spread quickly to the capital, a city of silver towers and cobbled streets, where news of the Queen’s disappearance had only begun to ripple. Queen Elyra had been beloved, not only for her beauty and wisdom, but for her rumored magic, a power that was said to flow through her veins as surely as the blood that sustained her. She was not only a ruler but a symbol of Yrille’s stability, the lynchpin holding the realms in harmony with one another. Her absence, so sudden, left a hollow in the air as heavy as the stillness in the capital’s main square.

As if the river’s unnatural flow was not strange enough, those who ventured near the water's edge began to hear whispers. Soft at first, like leaves brushing against one another, but growing louder the closer one came to the water. The whispers spoke of ancient secrets, of prophecies forgotten in dusty scrolls, of a Queen who had once made a dangerous pact with the river’s spirit to preserve her people. None could remember the details, for these were legends spoken of only in shadowed corners. But the river itself seemed to have woken, speaking to any who dared to listen, with a warning that chilled the bones of those who stood nearby.

In the days that followed, the court convened, its nobles and councilors more frightened than they cared to admit. Among them was Lord Fenric, the Queen’s most trusted advisor and the keeper of the kingdom’s ancient histories. As he poured over old manuscripts by candlelight, he found the same unsettling story again and again: of a queen who would face a choice at the height of her reign, one that would require her to sacrifice something dearer than life itself to protect her people. Each tale ended the same way: with the river reversing, its flow a herald of irreversible change.

Fenric read the last line of a crumbling scroll and leaned back, his mind racing. The Queen’s pact—was it true? Could she have traded herself to hold some ancient power at bay, to guard Yrille against a threat hidden from mortal eyes?

As he pondered these mysteries, he was joined by the Queen’s eldest son, Prince Caelan, who had grown weary of the court’s whispers and evasions. "If my mother has left, it’s not without reason," Caelan insisted, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "She would never leave her people to face this chaos alone. We must find her, or learn what she meant us to do in her absence."

Together, they resolved to follow the river to its source, hoping it would reveal some clue about her fate. They knew their journey would be perilous; stories of the river’s upper reaches were filled with shadowy creatures and strange enchantments. But there was no alternative, for without the Queen, Yrille teetered on the edge of ruin, and the land itself seemed to sense her absence.

The morning they departed, they found the river even more restless, its waters surging faster, its whispering voices now a churning roar. As they began their journey upstream, the landscape around them darkened, trees growing twisted, their roots creeping over the rocks like skeletal hands. The path was obscured by thick fog, and a sense of foreboding lay heavy in the air.

Three days into their trek, Prince Caelan and Lord Fenric came upon a glade where the river branched into three. At the center of the glade stood a stone obelisk, weathered by time and engraved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, as though lit from within. The runes were in the language of the old magic, words only those of noble blood could read.

Caelan approached, his fingers tracing the script as he whispered, “Elyra, guardian of Yrille, bearer of the river’s will.” His heart raced. This was the mark of his mother’s pact, left as a beacon for those who might come after her. He looked back at Fenric, who nodded gravely.

"The Queen didn’t vanish," Fenric said quietly. "She crossed over. She has gone to the other side of the Veil, the place where mortal and spirit realms converge. The river’s backwards flow is not a sign of her death but of her journey into the beyond."

But Caelan’s face remained somber. "Then why the whispers, why the darkness in the land?" he murmured. "If she left to save us, then what threat looms that she could not face here in our world?"

It was then that the river, as though it could hear their question, changed. The waters grew still, and from its depths, a shape began to rise—a figure cloaked in robes of flowing silver, with hair like moonlight, and eyes that glowed like embers. It was not Elyra, but something older and more powerful, a spirit who had guarded the river since before Yrille had ever risen from the earth.

The spirit’s voice was a wind, cold and unyielding. "Your Queen has crossed the Veil to hold back a great darkness, one that would consume the land if left unbound. But the barrier between realms grows thin, and the power she took with her cannot hold forever. Should she fail, her sacrifice will be in vain, and Yrille’s peace will be shattered."

The spirit turned its gaze on Caelan. "You, who bear her blood, must complete the pact she began. Go forth, Prince, and claim the power she could not. Only by embracing the river’s will and binding yourself to its flow can you protect Yrille as she sought to."

A choice now lay before him—a choice that would ask him to bind his own soul to the land, as his mother had once done. It was a bond that could never be broken and would tie his fate forever to that of the river, to the ever-flowing currents of magic and mystery that ran beneath the world.

With a last glance at Fenric, who watched with a mixture of pride and sorrow, Caelan took a step forward, his hands outstretched toward the river. The water began to rise, swirling around him, its cold tendrils wrapping him in a chilling embrace. And as he closed his eyes and whispered his vow, he felt the river’s ancient strength course through him, a power both beautiful and terrible, binding him to its will.

In that moment, as he became one with the river, he heard his mother’s voice, faint but filled with warmth. "Thank you, my son. You have saved them."

And then she was gone, leaving him alone but at peace, for he had inherited her burden and would carry it as long as the river flowed—forever, backward and forward, through the heart of Yrille.