Before dawn, Syrith, Averith, and Roukhal emerged from the tangled alleys of Dystyx's Old Quarter and crossed the broken aqueduct into the Sky District—a clifftop sprawl of broken spires and wind-carved colonnades. Here, the air was thin and cold, whipped into perpetual gale by enchanted wind-chimes strung between shattered towers. Every breath tasted of ozone and the promise of storm.
Clad in their talismans, they climbed a narrow stairway hewn into living rock, lantern light dancing in Averith's violet aura. At the summit stood the crumbling Hall of Whispering Winds, its open arches facing the void. Inside, the fifth Echo awaited: the Feather of Farstrife, a silver plumage suspended in a cyclone of trapped gale, its barbs etched with the betrayals of secrets whispered and promises undone.
Roukhal paused at the hall's threshold. "Wind Wardens patrol this place—masters of illusion and sudden gust. They can turn a footstep into a clifffall."
Averith closed her eyes, drawing deep on her healer's calm. "We move together. Our trust is our tether."
They entered beneath the howl of trapped wind. Steel grates in the floor churned air currents into razor-edge drafts. In the center, five Warden-Sentinels hovered—robes billowing, arms crossed, their mouths hidden by masks of smoothed brass. Between them, the Feather spun, its cyclone throbbing like a living heart.
Syrith drew the ember-thunder shard close. "By storm's decree, I claim the Feather of Farstrife!"
The Sentinels erupted as one: wind-lances forming in their palms, lancing toward Syrith with whistling speed. He drew in a gale of storm-energy, meeting them with crackling arcs of lightning that cut through the wind-lances and dissipated them into harmless mist.
Averith and Roukhal advanced: she moved with fluid grace, violet flames coalescing into a ribbon that snuffed wardens' illusions; he darted between gusts on silent feet, spear swinging to pin swirling robes to stone.
But the Hall answered their defiance. Turbines hidden above roared to life, flooding the chamber with gale so fierce it nearly lifted Syrith from the floor. The Feather spun faster, wind-knives slicing at his cloak.
He pressed the ember-thunder shard to his palm and unleashed a surge of combined Echo energies. Lightning flared, violet flame shimmered, and the shard pulsed like a heart in full storm. The wind around them stuttered—caught between gale and storm—and the Feather's cyclone fractured into shards of silvery feather that drifted to the floor.
The Sentinels snarled, surging forward in desperation. Syrith leapt through the tempest, seizing the largest feather shard. Its surface buzzed with voiced echoes: frantic whispers of confidences broken, of hidden truths exposed too late.
The voices pressed on his mind, dredging memories of councilors who plotted behind his back, of secrets he had kept too long. Doubt struck—Could he ever trust another? Pain lanced through him, but Averith's voice rang in his thoughts: "We stand by you."
He clenched the feather to his chest. The Echo's storm-essence harmonized with his own, and the feather's whispers danced into a single note of clarity and unity. The gale stilled in a heartbeat; the Hall fell silent save for the trio's ragged breaths.
The Feather of Farstrife dissolved into mote of silver wind, merging into Syrith's talisman with a bright pulse. The Sentinels, freed from the Echo's command, collapsed to their knees, eyes clear at last.
Roukhal lowered his spear, voice quiet with awe. "Five echoes claimed. Two remain."
Averith stepped to Syrith's side, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Your storm calms even the fiercest winds."
He nodded, eyes on the yawning void beyond the broken balustrade. "The next lies in the Shadow District—beneath the Labyrinth of Lost Faces. There, the sixth Echo awaits: the Veil of Vanished Vows." He set his jaw. "We press on before Velkyrion senses our triumph."
They turned back toward the winding stair, footsteps light against the stone. Above them, the first rays of dawn caught on the shattered spires of the Sky District, igniting them like a battlefield of flames and steel. The Feather's echo faded—but its gift remained, a promise that no wind could scatter their unity.
And far below, in the depths of Dystyx, the Labyrinth's gates awaited, their secrets trembling in anticipation of the king reborn.