The sky bled violet as dawn broke over Aeroth, a city built on silence and sustained by secrets. What little light pierced the clouds seemed reluctant, as if even the sun feared what walked its streets.
Zara sat atop a rooftop overlooking the western quarter, her knees drawn to her chest, the dagger laid across her lap like a sleeping serpent. It hadn't cooled since the battle. Neither had the mark on her forearm, which now pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Below, the city stirred. A cart rumbled down the cobbled path, vendors began setting up their stalls, and a preacher screamed something about the "Herald of the Hollow" returning to judge the sinners. No one listened. No one ever did.
But Zara did.
Because the preacher's words matched exactly what she'd heard in her dream the night before.
"The hollow returns, riding the spine of the broken moon, to reclaim what was once scattered."
The words echoed inside her skull like a drumbeat. Her fingers curled tightly around the dagger.
Behind her, footsteps scraped gently against the stone.
"Nice of you to leave me bleeding in an alley," Noel muttered, limping slightly as he approached.
"I thought you were immortal," Zara shot back.
"Still hurts." He gave a lopsided grin and dropped beside her. "Nice view, though. Looks better when you're not being hunted by abominations."
She didn't answer. Her gaze remained fixed on the eastern horizon, where the tower of the High Circle loomed—Aeroth's governing body of Arcanists, and possibly the most dangerous threat after the Hollowed.
"They're watching me," she whispered.
Noel followed her gaze. "The Circle?"
"No. It. The thing inside me. The Echo." She rubbed her arms. "It doesn't sleep. It whispers when I blink. It feeds on things I don't understand. And last night, when that Warden attacked—I wasn't fighting back."
She turned to him.
"I was enjoying it."
Noel's expression didn't shift, but his eyes grew serious. "That's normal."
"That's not normal!" she snapped. "It laughed when I cut the Warden's spine. It howled. It wanted more."
She reached into her pocket and threw down a handful of crimson shards—what remained of the Warden's essence after it died.
"They didn't turn to ash. They didn't dissolve. They left these. And my Echo... it ate them."
Noel's silence confirmed what she feared.
"They feed on memory," he finally said. "The fragments left behind by those they kill. Echoes are not just magic—they're hunger made flesh."
Zara stood, chest tight, heart drumming. "So what does that make me?"
"Strong," he said. "Stronger than any other Awakened I've seen. And maybe dangerous—but aren't we all?"
She shook her head. "That's not enough. I need to know what this is. Why me. Why now."
Noel sighed, then reached into his coat. He pulled out a leather-bound journal—frayed, stained with something that looked too dark to be ink.
"What's that?" she asked.
"A blueprint," he said, handing it to her. "Of your future."
Zara opened it.
The pages weren't written in ink, but in blood. Some of it fresh. Some of it blackened with age. Symbols danced before her eyes—some she recognized from dreams, others from the markings in the alley. A detailed sketch showed a circular gate built of bone and obsidian, spiraling inward like a vortex.
"The Gate of Echoes," Noel said. "Buried beneath Aeroth. They say whoever opens it will awaken the First Voice completely."
Zara flipped to the next page.
A sketch of her.
Not a likeness. An identical drawing—same mark, same dagger, same streak of silver in her hair. Her eyes glowed violet.
Beneath it, words scratched in a different hand:
"She is the last key. She must bleed willingly, or the world shall collapse."
Zara's hands trembled. "Who drew this?"
Noel didn't speak. He just pointed to the inside of the cover.
Her breath caught.
Property of Lysandre El'Varran.
Her mother's name.
"She was one of them," Zara whispered. "She knew."
"She was more than one of them," Noel said. "She led the rebellion. She sealed the Gate with her blood."
Zara stared at the journal. For years, she believed her mother died in the fire with her father. Now she learned her mother had been part of the Echo cult, had documented this prophecy, had drawn her before she even awakened.
"And you didn't think to tell me any of this sooner?" she asked, anger rising in her throat.
"I wanted to protect you."
Zara stepped back. "From what? The truth? Or from becoming like you?"
A sudden gust of wind swept across the rooftop. The dagger in her hand thrummed violently. In the distance, bells rang—shrill and panicked. Smoke rose from the market district.
Noel turned sharply. "They're making a move."
"The Hollowed?"
"No. Worse."
He paused.
"The Circle."
Zara stiffened. "You said they were just politicians and scholars."
"They are," he said grimly. "Which makes them infinitely more dangerous. They believe you're the trigger for another Collapse. And if they sense your awakening... they'll come for you."
Zara's eyes narrowed. "Then let them come."
Noel gave a tight smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Below, chaos erupted. Screams filled the streets. People fled in all directions. From the center of the square, a pillar of crimson light split the sky.
Zara slid the dagger into her belt, eyes set like flint.
"I'm done running. They want a war?"
She turned to Noel.
"Let's show them what an Echo really is."
***
The wind shifted. Acrid smoke swirled through the alleyways as Zara and Noel leapt from the rooftop into the chaos below. The streets had become a theater of terror—people running, bodies sprawled across the cobbles, and at the center of it all, the pillar of red light carved through the sky like a spear.
The Circle wasn't being subtle anymore.
Zara pressed through the panicked crowd, her cloak flaring behind her. Noel moved beside her like a ghost, eyes scanning every shadow.
They reached the square.
And everything stopped.
Time didn't slow. It paused. The crowd froze mid-scream. Crows hung suspended in the air. Even the smoke ceased its curling motion. Only Zara and Noel could move.
Then they heard it.
Tick… Tick… Tick.
A sound that didn't come from any clock, but from within their bones. A sharp click of inevitability. The moment fractured.
A man stood in the center of the square, cloaked in red and gray, his face hidden beneath a smooth silver mask etched with a single rune: "Silence."
Zara stepped forward. "Who are you?"
The figure raised a hand, and his voice echoed in both their minds, toneless and echoing like it traveled from across eternity.
"I am the Witness of Stillborn Realms. I am the silence between screams. I am the prelude to collapse."
Noel whispered, "Time Bender. One of the Circle's Archanists. Class Five Chronoweaver."
Zara stared in disbelief. "They actually sent a Chronoweaver after me?"
Before Noel could respond, the Witness moved.
He didn't walk—he skipped, like a faulty reel of memory. One moment distant, the next directly before Zara. His hand touched her forehead. Images exploded into her mind:
Her mother kneeling in blood.
A gate opening beneath a storm of black wings.
A screaming crowd of faceless people chanting her name.
And then—
A blade thrust through her heart.
Zara recoiled, eyes wide, gasping.
The Witness tilted his head. "You are incomplete. The First Voice rejects fractured vessels."
Zara gritted her teeth. "Then I'll unfracture."
She slashed forward with her dagger. But instead of striking him, she struck empty space.
The Witness was already behind her.
His voice touched her again.
"Do not struggle, Echo-bearer. Let the world end in stillness."
And then, for the first time since her awakening, Zara screamed—not out of fear, but rage.
The mark on her arm blazed violet.
The dagger burned white.
A pulse erupted from her chest, shattering the time-lock like glass. Screams resumed. Fire flickered. The world lurched back into motion. And the Witness staggered backward, mask cracking.
Noel's hand was suddenly at the Witness's throat, his shadowy claws extended. "You want her? Go through me first."
But the Witness didn't flinch. Instead, he placed a finger on Noel's temple.
And the boy collapsed—eyes wide, frozen in mid-thought.
"Noel!" Zara yelled.
"His soul is... inconvenient," the Witness said. "You'll thank me later."
Zara felt the Echo surge within her. Not whispering anymore. Screaming.
"Feed me."
"Let me out."
"One cut, and he's gone."
"No," Zara hissed. "You don't control me. Not yet."
The Witness raised his hand again—and Zara struck first.
Not with the dagger.
But with the fragments.
She'd kept the Warden shards in her pouch. Crimson glass soaked in death, in fear, in memory. She flung them at his feet and slammed her foot down.
The street cracked open.
The shards screamed as they exploded in energy. Screams of dying enemies, of centuries-old spirits, of the Warden's own last breath.
The Witness stumbled as a wave of memory smashed into him. For a split second, his mask disintegrated—
And beneath it was a boy.
Not much older than Zara.
His eyes were empty sockets, bleeding silver. His lips trembled as though he were trying to remember how to speak.
Then he vanished—no sound, no flash, just gone.
Zara dropped to her knees, breath ragged. "What the hell was that?"
Noel groaned beside her, slowly coming back to life. "Chronoweavers… They bend timelines around their trauma. That one… he was half-gone already."
Zara looked at him. "They'll send more, won't they?"
He nodded grimly. "And next time, it won't just be a message. It'll be execution."
She looked at the dagger in her hand.
It wasn't just steel anymore.
It had grown.
Black veins twisted around the hilt, and a faint whisper of wind echoed whenever she held it. The Echo had fused with it.
And deep in her soul, something smiled.
---
Elsewhere…
In the High Circle's chamber—an obsidian dome that absorbed all light—a Council of Nine gathered.
One of them, an old woman with eyes sewn shut by golden thread, sniffed the air.
"She awakened."
A man in white robes nodded. "The Gate pulses again."
Another figure floated above the floor, no legs beneath his robe. "We must kill her before she sings."
"Too late," said the oldest, wrapped in writhing paper scrolls. "She already has."
The Circle fell into silence.
Until the man in white spoke again. "Send the Skin-Painter."
A low hum of approval echoed through the room.
"Let the next assassin bear her father's face."