The Warden awoke in silence.
Not the comforting silence of sleep, but the kind that presses against the eardrums — too thick, too perfect. The kind that happens after things die.
Dust clung to his lips. Ash coated his skin like memory. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing at first — only black, layered upon black. Then, slowly, the world bled into view: a crater, wide and burned, surrounded by remnants of what might have once been a temple or a fortress.
Above, the shattered moon still hung — its jagged surface cracked wider than before. The sky trembled faintly, like parchment under flame.
He sat up with effort. His ribs ached. His limbs felt disconnected, as though he were a puppet held together by threadbare string. His crimson coat was scorched, blackened along the seams, the sigils once etched into his sleeves flickering with faint, residual light.
But what truly stopped him was the feeling in his chest.
Or rather, the lack of it.
He placed a hand over his sternum, fingers trembling.
There was... nothing.
The soul that had once burned within him — an unrelenting, singular force — was fractured. He could feel the holes where once there had been fullness. Like a man missing a heartbeat, and somehow still alive.
"Gone," he whispered.
The word echoed oddly, as if the world itself repeated it in mockery.
Then he heard it — a subtle hum.
Familiar.
He turned.
The razorbill-headed cane lay nearby in the dust, humming softly with its own energy. The eyes of the carved bird opened slowly as he crawled toward it, hand outstretched. The moment he touched it, a pulse surged through his veins — warmth, recognition, something close to relief.
You still know me, it seemed to say.
He stood, shakily. The cane adjusted to his grip, shifting slightly — not its shape yet, but its balance, the way a living thing would.
"You stayed," he murmured.
The cane did not answer in words.
It didn't have to.
The ground beneath him pulsed once. Not violently, but rhythmically — like a heartbeat. Except it didn't come from below. It came from around. The very air, the stones, the world itself, was now a living wound, and he had torn it open.
He felt something shift at the edge of his perception — a presence. Not one. Three. No... four. Faint. Distant. But distinct.
Each one sang a different note in the key of his ruin.
Sol.
Nyx.
Thorn.
Nocturne.
The Echoes were not dead. They were active. Moving.
And they were not idle.
"You've scattered," he said quietly. "You've taken pieces of me with you."
The cane vibrated once, sensing what he sensed. Not fear, exactly. But urgency.
He closed his eyes and focused.
From the void of his soul, a faint tether stirred — the golden flare of Sol's fury to the west, the velvet whisper of Nyx to the east, a rot-green bloom to the south that could only be Thorn, and somewhere deep beneath the crust of reality, a blue murmur: Nocturne.
The path was clear.
But the cost...
He turned to the horizon.
A flicker of movement broke his focus.
In the shadows beyond the crater, something crawled.
It moved on all fours — long-limbed, emaciated, draped in something that might once have been robes. Its face was stretched, its eyes too large, glowing faint white in the dark. Teeth clattered against each other as it hissed, bone scraping bone.
"Wretch," the Warden muttered.
It lunged.
He reacted with practiced instinct.
The cane shifted — blade extending, edge narrowing into a scythe-like crescent as he spun, slicing upward. The Wretch's head came free without resistance.
No blood.
Only shadow smoke, leaking from its neck.
A second Wretch followed — this one faster. It screeched as it leapt, limbs flailing.
The cane twisted again — now a whip, coiling midair and striking the creature's torso. The impact snapped its spine audibly, folding it in on itself before it collapsed into dust.
The third came more cautiously.
Good.
He slammed the cane's butt into the ground.
"Domain."
Crimson rings erupted outward in a ten-foot radius. Time and light fractured inside the sphere. The air rippled. The Wretch froze, limbs spasming in place as the barrier distortion activated — nulling its senses, amplifying its pain, slowing every heartbeat into unbearable frames.
The Warden stepped into the field calmly and drove the cane — now a thin spike — through its chest.
It evaporated.
The domain faded.
Silence returned.
But it was different now.
The silence had respect.
He looked to the sky once more.
His cane glowed faintly in his grip. Not just in power — but in remembrance.
"One soul at a time," he said. "One Echo. Then another."
From the tip of his cane, a glyph ignited — shaped like a razorbill's head, drawn in red light.
Moments later, from the shadows, a flock of crimson birds burst forth, ethereal and sleek. Their wings whispered in the wind. They circled the crater once — scouting, hungry, loyal.
They would serve him well in the hunt.
He turned, walking toward the golden flare on the horizon.
"Sol."
His first Echo.
His first reckoning.
End of Chapter One
Next: Chapter Two – Sol of the Burning Halberd