CHAPTER I: THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME
The village looked as though it had been carved from the remnants of the Middle Ages: eleven or twelve neat houses clustered around a small church, a wide stretch of sand, and in the very center, a great bonfire pit. Here the children lived, each in their chosen dwelling, bound together by fate.
Around the fire, ten chairs had been placed in a perfect circle.
The game was about to begin.
The first day dawned not with sunlight, but with a voice that echoed in every mind. And after the voice spoke, each of them collapsed into unconsciousness.
It was Ecko who stirred first. His ears—sharpened, sensitive beyond the ordinary—caught the faintest sound from outside. Tall, dark-skinned, with white braids that shifted against his shoulders, he rose in silence. As he stepped out, a piercing chime rang across the village—so loud it was nearly deafening.
One by one, the others emerged from their homes. Before each house, a single chair awaited.
Then a woman's voice rang out, commanding yet strangely soft:
"Sit."
They hesitated, glancing at one another, then obeyed.
Ecko's green eyes darted around, cautious, searching. He had always found solace in silence; he played the flute, mastered hide-and-seek, and retreated into stillness when the world grew too loud. But now he sat, unknowing of how grave this game would become.
The voice came again:
"The game begins now. Each of you has been given daily tasks—complete them to strengthen your powers, and uncover the cursed among you."
Then it fell silent. At that moment, visions of tasks unfolded within their minds.
Ecko's first duty: to clean the windows of the church. He had six hours. Social settings had always made him uneasy, so without betraying his fear, he set off quickly toward the chapel.
There, in the garden, he found Rovan tending the plants. Dark-haired, bronze-skinned, dressed in earthy tones, Rovan touched the soil as though it were kin. For one who collected seeds and lived by gardening, this place was a sanctuary.
"What are you doing here? When did you get here?" asked Ecko.
"For the same reason you're here," Rovan replied calmly. "I've come to complete my task. Why—are you hiding something?"
"No," said Ecko, stiffly. "I thought you'd be talking with the others in the square."
"Plants are my comfort. And when my task involved them, I couldn't wait to begin," said Rovan with a faint smile.
They spoke for half an hour—of the killings, of who the cursed might be. But neither was serious. It all felt like some elaborate joke, nothing more.
Then Bren arrived, carrying a sack over his shoulders. His light-brown hair clung damply to his forehead, freckles shining with sweat. A lover of acting, a keen observer, Bren already seemed to move with the rhythm of the game.
"What's in the sack?" Ecko called. "Need help?"
"No, I've got it. It's not that heavy," Bren answered, though the strain in his arms betrayed him.
"Where are you headed?"
"There's a blacksmith in the east. I've to deliver raw materials."
"Good. I've a task there too," Ecko said, and they set off together. Rovan lingered with his plants.
On the road, Bren turned to him.
"You're not going to tell me your role?"
"Why should I?" Ecko snapped. "Didn't you hear Meril's voice? Don't trust anyone. Don't reveal your role."
"But we're brothers. I trust everyone. Back in the square, Enid, Gelda, and Saru were debating whether they should share their roles at all."
Ecko said nothing, only frowned.
Enid was small, curly-haired, and unassuming, though when she watched birds or played with her puppets, her eyes glowed with a secret light.
Gelda, with golden eyes and long black waves of hair, looked like a vision sprung from nature itself, her bond with animals granting her uncanny grace.
Saru, calm and gentle, appeared plain at first glance—short hair, warm complexion—but his words carried unexpected depth.
"Ridiculous," Ecko muttered.
Bren halted. His expression softened.
"I trust you," he said. And in the next heartbeat—he became Ecko.
Startled, Ecko dropped the sack and fled.
"Don't be afraid!" Bren shouted after him. "It's only my power!"
But Ecko kept running, heart hammering, until he stumbled into a barn. He crouched in the shadows, hands clamped over his ears, struggling to steady his breath.
And then he heard another sound.
Rovan's voice—yet Rovan was nowhere near.
"Yes, I understand," the boy was saying softly. "I'll be careful." He was speaking to the plants.
Ecko shivered.
"I knew my power was tied to sound," he whispered. "But this… this is too much."
He forced his thoughts back to his tasks. Five hours remained.
He reached the armorer's forge in the east. No one was there. Rovan's strange words still haunted him. He tried to focus—tried for an hour—but nothing came. At last, he abandoned the effort and set about chopping the wood assigned to him. The task took half an hour.
The final duty lay in the west: gathering daisies. He wandered for ninety minutes, humming softly to himself as he searched the meadows. When at last the flowers were collected, a sudden pain pierced his ears. It vanished just as quickly, and then—he realized he could hear more keenly than before.
With thirty minutes remaining, Ecko returned to the square. Nearly all were gathered save for Bren, Gusto, and Carl.
Gusto arrived first, his lilac-pink eyes gleaming beneath hair so pale it seemed to drink in the light. A lover of theatre, he carried a natural drama with him—thriving in moments such as these.
Two minutes later, Carl appeared—curly-haired, bespectacled, his brown eyes alert and measuring. A scholar and a tinkerer, Carl was known to repair old relics for hours on end.
At last, with scarcely three minutes to spare, Bren arrived.
Ecko's gaze fixed on him, wary, unsettled. Bren returned the look with quiet concern.
Then the voice returned.
"Sit in your places."
They obeyed.
"You are fortunate," said the voice. "No one has died today. But tonight… I cannot promise the same."
"Why?" Carl burst out.
Ecko stared at him, surprised. Carl, who usually lived in silence among his books, had rarely spoken with such force.
"Because," answered Meril's voice, "whether you venture outside tonight is your choice. But the cursed may come for you in your sleep—or in your homes. Nothing can prevent it."
Gusto stepped forward, defiant.
"Then why leave at all?"
"Because at night," came the reply, "your powers will grow swifter, stronger. Yet with that growth comes danger—and tasks that may break you."
Ecko faltered. To leave, or to hide? At last, fear took him, and he chose his house.
The voice gave its final decree:
"This was your first day. You will not vote tonight. But tomorrow… the choice will not be yours to refuse. Good night, my children. You are free."
They dispersed.
In his home, Ecko sat and focused once more on sound. He pictured Bren's house, listened intently—and there it was: breath, quick and heavy. Then the creak of a door. Footsteps fading. And silence.
Suspicion gnawed at him. Should he warn the others? Or remain silent?
Instead, he dragged a table across his door, bracing it like a barricade. He lay down, though sleep did not come easily.
When it did, he dreamed.
Bren slaughtered them all. His brothers, his sisters, his family. Screams tore the night apart.
Ecko woke gasping, drenched in sweat. One truth burned in his chest.
Day One was over.