"History is the first lie we learn to love. It is a comforting blanket woven from the threads of forgotten wars and whispered secrets. But the truth is not a thread—it is a blade, and when it finally cuts through, it will unravel everything."
- From the Lost Verses of the Somnus Archives
The echo of a firebolt tasted like burnt honey and ozone.
Orion knelt in the dusty training yard of Oakhaven, his palm hovering above the scorched earth where, moments ago, a sphere of flame had blossomed and died. The yard was a patch of hard-packed dirt at the village's edge, littered with splintered dummies and the faint shimmer of spent power. To anyone else, the ground was only dirt. To Orion, it was a canvas of fading energy, a ghost of power waiting to be gathered. He could feel the lingering heat, the faint, angry hum of its birth. Pathetic compared to the original spell, but it was all he had.
He took a slow breath, sinking into the familiar sensation. Each power had its own flavor. Wind echoes were crisp and sharp like winter air; earth echoes were gritty and solid, a low thrum against his senses. But fire… fire was always the strongest, the most vibrant. It left a residue that clung to the world like resin, desperate to burn just a little longer. Chasing these remnants was his entire existence, making him feel less like a wielder of power and more like a scavenger, picking at the scraps left behind by the truly gifted. From the yard, he could hear the rhythmic thud of axes from the lumber mill and the distant laughter from the village proper, sounds from a world he watched but never truly felt a part of.
"Look at him," a voice sneered, dripping with the arrogance only a fourteen-year-old fireblood could muster. "The little echo-thief chasing scraps again."
Valerius stood with arms crossed, his two lackeys, Brandt and Joric, flanking him like smug gargoyles. His fine tunic screamed wealth, a sharp contrast to Orion's patched breeches. Valerius's lineage traced back to one of the first Awakened in Oakhaven. His fire was a birthright. Orion's power was a cosmic joke.
"It's not stealing if you leave it lying around," Orion muttered, eyes shut as he coaxed the residue toward his hand. A tiny flame sputtered to life in his palm, no bigger than his thumb. Pitiful, but steady.
Joric barked a laugh. "That? My uncle coughs bigger sparks after drinking mead."
Orion rose slowly, the flicker casting a faint glow across his determined face. "It's not about size," he said, voice calm. "It's about control."
Valerius's smirk widened, though his eyes stayed cold. "Control, is it? Then control this."
With a casual flick of his wrist, a jet of flame—thick as his arm—blasted from his palm. It wasn't aimed at Orion, but at a nearby dummy. Wood crackled, turned black, then collapsed into ash. Heat washed over the yard, the very air warping.
"That's real power, echo-thief," Valerius gloated. "Power of a true bloodline. Born, not begged."
Orion ignored the sting of the words, a familiar prick against his pride. His focus was on the air, where a massive echo burned bright. Compared to the scraps he usually scavenged, this was a feast. He pulled at it, steady, relentless. The energy flooded him, a heady, dangerous rush. It felt like trying to drink a river through a straw; the power was almost too much, threatening to overwhelm his senses and dissipate into nothing. He gritted his teeth, forcing it into a shape he could command. The flame in his hand swelled—first fist-sized, then a melon. Its color sharpened from dull orange to furious red, hot enough to sting his skin.
Brandt's bravado faltered. "Val… he's actually—"
Valerius's grin slipped, surprise flickering across his face before hardening into annoyance. Orion had never gathered this much. It was still weaker than true fire, but no longer a trick. It was a threat.
"Impressive," Valerius conceded tightly. "But an echo is still just an echo. A shadow. Empty." He cracked his knuckles, small flames coiling around them like angry serpents. "Let me show you the difference."
Orion's mind raced. A direct fight was hopeless. It always was. He couldn't win with power. Valerius was a river; Orion was a cup trying to catch the rain. So change the game, a voice in his head whispered, the core of his survival instinct. A fire-wielder's weakness isn't power. It's sight. It's footing. As Valerius formed another firebolt, a sphere of flame churning in his hands, Orion acted.
He slammed his palm against the dirt.
The heat he'd gathered burst outward, not upward. A ring of superheated air and dust exploded across the yard with a sharp whoosh, blinding and choking. Valerius and his cronies coughed, staggering as grit turned the afternoon murky brown.
Orion didn't waste a heartbeat. He sprinted toward the barrels stacked near the fence, their surfaces cool with condensation. He seized the smallest cask—five gallons—and, with a grunt that tore at his muscles, heaved it into the air. The barrel arced over the dust cloud and crashed down with a thunderous splash. Water drenched the trio, extinguishing the gathering fire with a pathetic hiss.
The cloud thinned. Valerius emerged dripping, hair plastered flat, his regal posture reduced to that of a soaked alley cat.
Orion stood at the yard's edge, chest heaving but expression calm. He hadn't won, but he hadn't lost either. For a boy wielding borrowed power, that was victory enough.
"You coward!" Valerius roared, fury twisting his face. "Too weak to fight, so you hide behind tricks?"
"Maybe," Orion called back, his voice steady despite the adrenaline making his hands tremble. "But at least I don't set my own hair on fire."
Brandt snorted despite himself, quickly masking it with a cough. Joric shifted uneasily, unwilling to meet Valerius's murderous gaze.
Orion turned and walked away, not running, not flinching, though their glares burned into his back like hot coals. Each step carried him further from the yard, further from their scorn. The triumph felt good for a moment, a bright, hot flash, but as he walked the familiar path back toward his cottage, it faded, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache. The villagers he passed barely gave him a second glance—just the orphan boy, always covered in dust, always alone. His clever tricks had won him a moment of peace, but they hadn't earned him a shred of respect. He craved something he could not yet name but desperately needed.
A real power. One that wasn't just an echo.