Nyssarra

The sky was a bruised purple when Nyssarra stepped through the rusted iron gate that guarded Draynor Manor. The air had shifted—thick with a silence so deep it pressed against her ears, as if the manor itself held its breath.

Moonlight spilled over cracked stone steps and shattered windowpanes. The once-grand doors stood slightly ajar, like a yawning maw inviting her into the secrets within.

Nyssarra’s fingers brushed the crystal-tipped arrow resting in her quiver. Her other hand rested lightly on the hilt of her dagger. Every sense prickled with anticipation.

Inside, the manor was a cathedral of shadows. Faded tapestries hung askew, their colors drained by time. Dust motes floated in silver beams of moonlight filtering through broken glass. The scent of mold and forgotten memories clung to every surface.

She moved cautiously through the grand hall, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath her boots. Whispers drifted just beyond hearing—soft, unintelligible murmurs that set her skin on edge.

A sudden clatter echoed from upstairs, followed by a low, eerie hum.

Nyssarra’s breath caught. She slipped up the creaking staircase, every step measured and silent. The hum grew louder—an unsettling melody, woven from dissonant notes that seemed both distant and close, as if echoing from within the walls themselves.

At the end of the hall, a door stood closed, carved with arcane symbols that pulsed faintly with an otherworldly light.

She pressed a hand against the wood. The air shimmered with latent magic.

Before she could react, the door swung open on its own, revealing a chamber bathed in cold blue light.

Inside, ghostly figures flickered like candle flames—faces twisted in sorrow and rage, trapped between worlds. Their eyes met Nyssarra’s with silent pleas and warnings.

Nyssarra raised her bow, nocking a crystal arrow. “I’m here to help.”

A wailing chorus rose suddenly, the manor itself seeming to cry out. The spirits surged forward, swirling around her like a tempest of lost souls.

Summoning her inner calm, Nyssarra whispered a soft melody—an ancient elven song her mother had taught her. The ghosts paused, their cries easing into mournful sighs.

One spirit—a woman in tattered finery—stepped forward, her voice barely more than a breath. “Find the song’s source… break the chain.”

Nyssarra’s eyes scanned the room, landing on a cracked music box resting on a dusty table. She approached, fingers trembling slightly, and opened it.

A haunting lullaby played, echoing the melody she had heard in the village tavern.

The music box was the heart of the curse.

With steady hands, Nyssarra reached into her pouch and pulled out a small vial of shimmering crystal dust. She scattered it over the music box, muttering an incantation taught by her elven kin.

The box shuddered, then shattered, releasing a burst of light that chased away the ghostly figures. Silence fell.

The manor seemed to exhale, the oppressive weight lifting like a morning fog.

Nyssarra sank to the floor, exhaustion and relief mingling.

But the manor wasn’t finished.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked, and watching with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.

“Who dares break the song?” the figure intoned, voice cold as ice.

Nyssarra rose, drawing her bow. “One who refuses to be silenced.”

The figure stepped into the moonlight, revealing a face both beautiful and terrible—marked by ancient magic and malice.

“Then the game begins,” it said, vanishing into mist.

Nyssarra knew this was only the start of a deeper darkness. But she would face it, as she always had—with quiet resolve, crystal arrows, and the song of her ancestors echoing in her heart.