Orien Vale emerged from the mist like a man reborn, the feather-shaped shard clutched tightly in one hand, the stone pulsing faintly at his side. The Forest of Echoes lay behind him—silent once more, its illusions defeated, its memories sealed for now. The Keeper's words echoed in his mind: "Follow the river. When the water sings, listen. When it weeps, run."
The land ahead was unfamiliar. Rolling hills stitched with veins of silver grass sloped gently downward, and in the distance, he heard it—the river. Not rushing, not roaring, but singing. A low, melodic hum carried on the wind, beckoning him forward.
His legs ached, his heart still fluttered with the remnants of the Trial. But he moved, step by step, toward the sound.
The river was wider now, no longer the gentle stream that wound through Elowen. Its surface shimmered like glass, and the banks were lined with stones as smooth and dark as obsidian. As he followed its course, Orien saw carvings in the rocks—symbols, faces, runes. Some smiled. Others wept. One stared blankly with hollow eyes.
He paused to study them, but the stone at his side gave a sudden, sharp pulse, and he took the hint. This place was not for lingering.
After hours of walking, the sky began to dim—not from the setting sun, but from thickening clouds. The air grew damp and heavy. The singing of the river grew louder, but it no longer sounded sweet. It carried a tremor of sadness now, a distant echo of grief.
Then he saw it.
The bridge.
It spanned the river in a single perfect arc, seemingly carved from one unbroken piece of pale stone. No moss touched its surface. No cracks marred its structure. But it was wrong.
Orien could feel it.
The closer he got, the colder the air became. The river at the bridge's base churned dark and slow, its melody changing to a mournful hum. The bridge itself was utterly silent—not a creak, not a whisper.
A plaque stood near the base of the bridge, weathered but still readable:
"The Silent Bridge — Speak no lies, step with no doubt, or be swallowed by what you deny."
He stared at the words, then at the bridge.
"What does that mean?" he whispered.
The river's hum deepened in warning.
He stepped onto the bridge.
Instantly, the world fell silent.
Not just quiet—silent. He could not hear his own breath, the sound of his steps, even the thudding of his heart.
He tried to speak—nothing. Not even a whisper.
The river had warned him.
He took another step. Then another. The bridge seemed longer than it looked. Much longer. With each step, the silence grew thicker, pressing against his skull. He felt alone. Truly alone.
Then the visions began.
His mother.
Standing at the hearth, her back to him. "You're too quiet, Orien. Too distant. You scare people."
He reached out to her. She vanished.
Another step.
Lira.
"You keep things from me. One day, you'll vanish too. And I won't be able to follow."
Another step.
The man in black robes. "The Trial begins."
Another step.
His own reflection.
"You don't belong anywhere. Not in Elowen. Not on this path. You are alone."
He shook his head. But the silence gave him no comfort, no words to resist with.
He walked faster.
The visions began to move. They followed. They whispered behind him, though he heard no sound. Their mouths moved, but he could not read the words.
He broke into a run.
The bridge groaned.
Cracks split the surface beneath his feet. The stone pulsed red for an instant, like veins beneath skin.
Then a scream—soundless, but deafening in his head.
The bridge shuddered, and the stone began to split.
"No!" he mouthed, staggering.
He remembered the plaque: Speak no lies. Step with no doubt.
What was his doubt?
He closed his eyes.
"I'm not ready."
A crack split beneath him.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
More cracks. The river boiled below.
He opened his eyes, trembling. The visions stood before him now. Blocking the way forward.
"You'll never finish the Trials," said the Echo-Orien.
"You weren't chosen. You were cursed," said Lira's phantom.
He reached into his pouch and pulled the stone. It pulsed, but faintly. He remembered the forest. The Echo. The fight. He remembered standing over himself and choosing not to become the monster he saw.
"I don't have all the answers," he whispered, even though no sound came. "But I will keep going."
He stepped forward.
The phantoms lunged.
The stone flared.
Light exploded across the bridge, searing through the illusions. The stone beneath his feet went smooth again, uncracked. The silence thinned.
He could hear his heartbeat.
He took the final step—and stepped off the bridge.
The moment his boots touched the far bank, the silence vanished. The wind returned, the river's melody softened, and he gasped aloud, breathing in sharp lungfuls of air.
Ahead stood a shrine.
Small and round, made of marble and ivy. Inside, atop a pedestal, floated another shard—this one shaped like a flame, glowing orange-red.
He reached out, and as his fingers brushed it, a whisper filled his ears:
"Trial Two complete. Eighty-eight remain."
He stood still for a long moment, flame-shard in hand, then slipped it into the pouch beside the feather. The stone pulsed in agreement.
But the wind carried another sound now.
Not whispers.
Footsteps.
He turned.
A figure approached. Not cloaked. Not robed.
A girl.
Lira.
Or at least… someone who looked exactly like her.
She paused a few feet away, watching him. Her eyes were the same—but behind them was something… older. Ancient.
"You're not her," Orien said.
"No," she replied. "But she walks paths that brush close to yours. In dreams. In places between."
"Why show her face?"
"Because it matters to you. And you matter to us."
"Us?"
"There are more than Trials, Orien Vale. There are watchers. Keepers. Judges. And others who walk the Trials for darker reasons."
She stepped forward and held out a sealed envelope, wax-stamped with an unfamiliar sigil: a serpent eating its own tail.
"When the time comes," she said, "open this. But not before."
He hesitated, then took it.
"What are you?" he asked.
She smiled. "A friend. For now."
And she vanished into mist.
That night, Orien made camp beneath a twisting tree shaped like a question mark. He sat beside a fire, the stone beside him, the two shards glowing faintly on a flat stone.
He stared at the envelope.
He did not open it.
Instead, he whispered into the fire:
"Two down. Ninety-eight to go."
Then he slept, and dreamed of bridges that whispered, rivers that wept, and a girl with red curls watching from a world just beyond the veil.