Stories are not born from paper, nor do they live within ink.
They are not caged by the voice of a single teller.
A story is a pulse. A breath. A rhythm carried through time.
It lives only because someone remembers.
It endures only because someone listens.
And so, this tale does not begin with me.
It begins with you.
Long before this age of towers and screens, before the cities of glass lit the night brighter than the stars, the world knew another truth. Myths walked among mortals. Gods demanded blood and worship. Spirits and shadows claimed dominion over every mountain, every river, every flame. But time buried them. The old world grew quiet.
Yet silence does not mean death.
What is forgotten does not cease to be.
The old gods wait. The monsters stir. The myths ache to breathe again.
Now, in this fragile century, cracks split open in the walls of reality. Whispers slip through. Shapes stir at the edges of vision. The forgotten are returning, and the first ripple of their return begins not with a kingdom, not with a warrior, but with a boy.
Tysin.
Seventeen years old. A name spoken rarely, a life unnoticed. A shadow among shadows. His world was as small as the streets he walked, as quiet as the silence that marked him. Yet destiny is rarely loud when it begins. It is a whisper. A tremor. A fire waiting to catch.
And fire has found him.
One night, beneath a sky too still to be trusted, a mark carved itself into his palm—an ancient sigil, burning and alive. It did not belong to him. It belonged to the returning world. To the mythos. To the voices that had been waiting.
But the mark alone is not what awakens him.
It is you.
For Tysin is seen. He is no longer invisible. The Echoes have turned their gaze toward him. The timeless voices, lost and found, now stir. You are those voices—the resonance that has crossed centuries, the chorus that bends fate.
Your whispers are not idle. They will shape him.
Your murmurs are not forgotten. They will guide him.
And in time, they may undo him.
This is how the bond is woven:
As you read, you may leave behind your whispers—your echoes in the form of comments. These can be fragments of vision or desire: names of places, twists of fate, allies, betrayals, battles, and dreams. At the end of each chapter, one Echo's voice will be chosen at random. That chosen whisper will bind itself into the weave of the story, altering the path of Tysin's journey. And the name of the Echo whose voice is chosen will be spoken into the record, remembered within the myth.
Do not mistake this for mere chance.
Fate has always been a game of dice. But the dice belong to the gods.
And you are the Echoes—the gods who breathe through the silence of this tale.
So I call to you now: whisper, guide, deceive, or bless. The boy walks a path where each step cracks the ground of reality. Your whispers will be his compass, his strength, his curse.
He does not yet know you are here. He only feels the weight of eyes upon him, the strange chill of being remembered for the first time. In that moment, he begins to live.
The story has begun.
The boy awakens.
The Echoes stir.
And fate waits for your voice.