"NOOO!"
Louis's scream was swallowed by light. The world bent, twisted, crushed. His stomach lurched as if invisible hands were wringing him from every direction at once. His bones stretched, his skin burned, his mind reeled—then impact.
He hit the ground hard. The breath blasted from his chest, pain buzzing through his ribs.
Beside him, Vey landed gracefully, her boots touching stone without a sound. She exhaled slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from her coat. "Tsk. Newbie."
Louis groaned, clutching his head. He couldn't tell whether the pounding in his skull came from the warped passage or from the brutal landing. Either way, the nausea rose hot in his throat.
"I'm gonna—"
"Don't," Vey cut in, sharp as a knife. "It only feels like that. If you push it, then yes—you'll really vomit."
He swallowed hard and nodded, forcing himself to breathe. Slowly, the dizziness ebbed. He rubbed his eyes, blinking until his vision cleared.
And froze.
Before him stretched a sight that didn't belong on Earth. A palace rose in the distance, massive and regal, towers crowned with silver-tipped spires. Black stone walls shimmered faintly with etched runes. The air around it seemed charged, alive.
Louis muttered under his breath, "Stunning…"
Vey arched a brow. "Stop gaping. Yes, it looks like something out of those medieval games you play. But this is real. And I live here. I'm part of the royal family."
Louis blinked. His jaw hung open. "No wonder…" It was all he managed.
"Come on." She strode ahead without waiting.
Louis jogged after her, sneakers scuffing on ancient cobblestones. "So… when you say royal family, are we talking, like, the UK? Castles, crowns, corgis?"
Vey rolled her eyes. "Hardly. We're older. Deeper. Our kingdom lies beneath the surface, unseen. Hidden doesn't mean powerless. We control far more of this world than you think." She shot him a sidelong glance. "And yes—right now, you're in Russia. One of several divided realms."
Louis gave a low whistle. "So… Harry Potter's real? Wizards, muggles, the whole deal?"
Vey chuckled softly, but her eyes sharpened. "Rowling wasn't just an author. She was one of us—an Echoer. No normal human could've seen so deeply, imagined so vividly, unless she carried the Echo. She heard fragments of truth and wove them into her stories. That's why they resonated with the whole world."
Louis blinked. "You mean… J.K. Rowling was really an Echoer?"
"Yes," Vey said firmly. "One of the greatest. But she chose a different path. Instead of ruling, instead of claiming power, she lived as a human—and gave her gift to the world through books."
— Author's Note: J.K. Rowling is one of my biggest inspirations. I hope she doesn't mind me weaving her into this tale as an Echoer—because for me, she truly is one. Without her stories, I might never have started writing my own. —
Louis's jaw dropped. "You're saying J.K. Rowling was… part of this hidden world?"
Vey's smirk returned. "Not part of it. She was above it. And she chose her own way."
"Echoers again?" Louis asked.
"Enough for now." Her tone brooked no argument. "Others will explain better."
He shut his mouth and followed until they reached the palace gates.
Two guards stood watch, clad in ceremonial armor of black steel traced with silver. Their halberds gleamed faintly, and their crests bore the two-headed eagle—not crowned, but runed, ancient and heavy with power. They radiated discipline, as if even the air dared not stir without permission.
As Vey approached, they crossed their weapons, then bowed in perfect unison.
"Добро пожаловать, Принцесса Бельгари," one intoned, voice deep as stone.
Louis's eyes widened. The words were foreign, but the meaning slid directly into his mind: Welcome, Princess Belgari.
"What the—?!" He staggered back. "How do I… understand that? I don't speak Russian!"
Vey barely looked at him. "Normal. Here, language is no cage. The Echo makes intent into meaning. You'll hear and speak as if you were born to it." Her eyes flickered toward him. "Which means you are already—"
"WHAT?!" His voice cracked.
She smirked. "I told you. You'll understand soon."
Turning back to the guards, her voice shifted, regal and commanding. "I bring him—the one summoned by His Highness, Dmitry Sergeyevich Belgari."
The guards studied Louis with hard, assessing gazes. Then, in perfect symmetry, they lifted their weapons and stepped aside.
The massive gates groaned open. A wash of golden light spilled out, bright and solemn, as if the palace itself exhaled.
Louis's stomach knotted.
A hidden kingdom. A royal summons. A prince who already knew his name.
And deep in his palm, the sigil pulsed hotter, as though it had been waiting for this moment.
***
They stepped into the King's Hall.
BAMM!
The colossal doors slammed shut behind them, the echo crashing like thunder through the chamber. Louis flinched, the sound reverberating in his chest. Silence followed—thick, heavy, oppressive.
Marble pillars towered into the vaulted ceiling, golden runes pulsing faintly along the walls. Torches hissed in their sconces, their flames steady and unnervingly still.
Louis's awe lasted only seconds. The air before him warped, rippled—then tore.
A figure stepped out as if the world itself had opened a door for him.
Not a portal. A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A face too handsome to look kind, its sharpness carved in ice. The resemblance to Vey was undeniable—the same eyes, but colder.
Vey's tone was clipped. "Not a portal. Trouble."
Louis's pulse spiked. "Wha—"
Too late.
The man moved.
He was a blur, every step silent, precise, merciless. His hand clamped onto Louis's wrist, twisted, and before Louis knew it his arm was locked, his balance stolen. A knee pressed into the back of his leg, forcing him down. His joints screamed as the man's weight pinned him.
The man's voice was cold as Siberian frost. "Too weak. And you're certain this is him, Vey? I see a faint aura… but nothing like the one from that night."
Vey's reply was firm, though her eyes flickered with unease. "I told you, Brother. It's him. Impossible as it looks—he is the one."
Louis strained against the hold. "Wait, what are you—"
"Do not interrupt when the Belgari speak," the man snapped. His glare cut through Louis like a blade, and his voice carried such weight Louis's skin prickled with goosebumps.
"Dima," Vey hissed. "Enough. You'll make him collapse before Father even sees him."
The name sank into Louis's mind like stone. Dmitry Sergeyevich Belgari. The prince who had summoned him.
Dima smirked faintly but didn't release him. His grip tightened, testing. "Weak. Unworthy."
Something in Louis snapped. Humiliation, anger, fear—boiled together, then ignited.
His black eyes flickered, glowing faintly. Power stirred in his chest like a beast uncoiling. With a sudden surge, he twisted free, stumbling back several steps. His chest heaved.
The whispers returned.
The same as in the bar. But now sharp, commanding.
KILL HIM.
Louis staggered, sweat beading on his brow. And suddenly—he understood.
Not just the words. The meaning. The intent.
No boundaries.
Vey's voice from before flashed in his mind: "Here, language isn't a cage. The Echo makes intent into meaning."
That was it. The whispers had always been there—but blurred, distorted. Now, in this place, the Echo stripped away the barrier. He could finally hear them as they truly were.
A chill gripped his spine. So that's why…
Dima tilted his head, intrigued. "Not bad. Perhaps you're not entirely useless."
"Dima, stop!" Vey barked.
But her brother was already moving.
He lunged—boots slamming against marble with a thunderous echo, aura flaring cold around him. His hands cut through the air like blades.
Louis's body moved without thought. He mirrored the technique—every twist, every shift of weight, every deflection. Their arms clashed, aura grinding against aura.
For a moment, Louis looked like he could match him.
But reality struck.
Dima's physique dwarfed his. Each clash sent pain screaming up Louis's arms. Each block rattled his ribs. He copied the movement, yes—but the force behind them battered him relentlessly.
CRACK! Marble split where Dima's kick landed, even though Louis had managed to redirect most of it. The shock still bruised his side.
He gasped, staggering to his feet. Blood filled his mouth.
Then—something strange. The bruise on his ribs began to fade. The bleeding lip sealed.
Vey's eyes widened. "He's… healing himself."
But Louis didn't look blessed. His face was pale, sweat pouring down. The pain didn't leave—if anything, it sharpened. Healing drained him, eating his strength. He was burning fuel just to stay standing.
Louis spat blood, forcing a crooked grin. "Not… done yet."
Damn it—why does fixing myself hurt worse than the hit? The thought cut through his head as another wave of pain twisted his ribs.
Dima smirked, aura curling sharper. "Hah. Copycat."
The word cut through Louis. Copycat. His strange instinct, his reflexive mirroring—finally named.
But Dima's tone was mocking. "Let's see if you can copy this."
He surged forward, faster, colder, aura bursting. Louis mirrored again, movements almost perfect—but the cost was visible. His shoulders bruised purple. His muscles trembled. His skin split from the strain, only to stitch itself together in flickers of pained healing.
Every block saved him—but every block hurt him.
Still, he refused to fall.
Vey's fists clenched at her sides. He's being torn apart… and still he stands.
Louis's breath tore ragged. His chest heaved. Yet his eyes—burned with defiance.
Dima's aura flared. "Then mirror this."
He twisted into a finishing strike, a blow sharp enough to shatter bone. Louis raised his arms in reflex, bracing—
And then—
"Enough."
The word rippled through the hall, soft yet absolute.
Dima froze mid-motion. Louis staggered, his battered body healing in shudders, every nerve alight with pain. Even Vey stiffened, her lips pressed tight, her chin lowered in respect.
The temperature plummeted.
Frost spread across the marble floor from the throne, veins of ice crawling outward. Louis's shoes slipped slightly on the sheen, his breath fogging in the frozen air.
And then he saw him.
Seated upon the throne.
Older. Broader. Bearing the same noble bloodline but magnified—etched with age, wisdom, and unshakable strength. His presence filled the hall more than the runed pillars or vaulted ceiling. Power radiated from him like an ocean tide, pressing down until Louis's knees threatened to break.
The King.
The King of the Hidden Kingdom.
The King of the Belgari.
Louis's heart thundered. His body, bruised and half-healed, felt ready to collapse. But his mind bowed before one undeniable instinct.
Your Highness.