Calen woke on the rooftop before dawn, his body sore in ways he didn't know it could be. Every joint ached, every muscle reminded him of the collapse, the screaming memories, and the weight of the Echo curled against his back like a living thing. He didn't move for a long time. The city beneath him was quiet, unnervingly quiet, as if the darkness itself had swallowed every sound.
He rubbed his face with the back of a dirty hand, grimacing. The taste of vomit lingered faintly, like a shadow he couldn't scrub away. The sigil on his chest had faded to a dull glow, but he knew it hadn't gone. He could feel it—a heartbeat that wasn't his, pulsing in time with his own, whispering fragments of thoughts, memories, and intentions that weren't his.
"Great," he muttered, voice rough and tired. "Perfect way to start a day."
The sun was barely a smudge in the gray sky when he forced himself to stand. Legs unsteady, heart hammering, he leaned over the edge of the building and looked down at the streets below. The lower tiers of the city were a maze of alleys, rusted-out vehicles, and haphazard stalls. Smoke curled from fires in bins, and distant shouting echoed off the walls. It all felt… smaller somehow, more intimate, like the city had shrunk while he slept.
He hadn't slept, really. Not after the Echo. The thing in him hummed quietly, coiling in his chest, ready to lunge at any moment. He flexed his fingers, testing the presence of it. A blade-like shadow slid along his arm at his command, sleek and dark. It was terrifying—and fascinating. He had no idea how strong it was, how far it could reach, or what would happen if he lost control.
But he had survived. That alone counted as a victory.
The streets were eerily calm as he descended, sticking to the shadows. Nobody stopped him. Not yet. The lower tiers were dangerous, but it was a different kind of danger than the Echo. Those streets were predictable. The gangs had patterns, the crooked merchants had rules, and the city tolerated petty thieves as long as they stayed invisible. He had survived here before. He could survive now.
Or so he told himself.
It didn't take long for him to realize that the Echo had changed the way he moved. Shadows followed him differently, bending and curling at his feet. His reflexes were sharper, senses heightened. He jumped across rooftops without thinking, felt every vibration through cracked concrete, smelled the faintest hint of smoke, fear, and blood.
He froze when a voice called from below.
"Hey! Kid!"
Calen ducked behind a stack of crates. The voice came again, rougher this time. "I said—come here!"
He peered over the edge. A boy, maybe fifteen, wiry and dirty like him, was leaning against a wall, a knife glinting in his hand. The kid's eyes were bright, too bright, and unafraid. Something about him made Calen tense. He wasn't a gang member—not yet. But he smelled trouble anyway.
"Uh… I'm not looking for trouble," Calen said, though his voice sounded small even to him.
The kid grinned, exposing a mouthful of uneven teeth. "Nobody is," he said. "Until they are."
Calen didn't have time to argue. He felt it before he saw it—a ripple in the Echo. Something dark, something hungry, reacting instinctively. He flexed his hand, and the shadow extended into a whip-like tendril, lashing forward. The kid's grin vanished as the tendril wrapped around his ankle, yanking him off balance and throwing him against the wall.
"Fucking hell," Calen muttered, heart racing. The kid scrambled, knife raised, but the Echo reacted faster than thought. It snapped and coiled, pinning him in place without cutting, without even harming him. Just a warning.
The boy's eyes were wide, fear mixing with awe. "What… what are you?"
Calen exhaled sharply, stepping back. "Something you don't want to know," he said. The truth would have scared him too—he wasn't ready for it either.
The kid didn't move. Just stared. Finally, he spoke in a hushed, trembling voice. "They're looking for you."
Calen's stomach dropped. "Who?"
The boy swallowed. "The Guild… Hollows. They've been asking about you. They… they know you woke one."
Calen's mind went blank. Hollows. The word had floated in whispers through the streets, like a warning, like a curse. Powerful, dangerous people, half-myth, half-reality. They were the ones who claimed the city's darker corners, the ones who made rules for people like him without asking. And now, apparently, they were coming for him.
"Why?" he asked, voice tight. "I didn't do anything. I didn't even know…"
The boy shrugged helplessly. "Doesn't matter. They'll find you anyway. They always do."
The warning didn't leave much time. Calen felt the Echo coil tighter around his chest, like it understood the threat. His first instinct was to run, but the Echo's whispers told him otherwise. It wasn't just danger—they were studying him. Measuring him. Waiting to see what he could do.
He swallowed, feeling a thrill he hated. Thrill, fear, and power mixed in a bitter cocktail. He hated that he liked it.
By the time he reached the main streets, the first Guild scouts were already visible. They moved like predators in suits of black leather patched with sigils that pulsed faintly in the dim light. Not a single one looked human, or at least not entirely. Their movements were too precise, their eyes too sharp, and the shadows around them seemed… alive.
Calen's heartbeat doubled. The Echo pulsed with his fear, stretching, curling, ready. He flexed his fingers, testing it. The shadow responded, forming blades and shields, whispering in shapes and sensations he didn't understand but could feel instinctively.
He ducked into a side alley. The Guild members were methodical, splitting up, scanning every corner, listening, sniffing the air. He could feel them tracking him, even if they hadn't spotted him yet.
"Shit," he muttered. He needed a plan. And fast. He couldn't outrun them forever, not with a power he barely understood and no real training.
The alley ended abruptly in a dead end. Calen froze, back pressed against the wall. The Echo pulsed, sensing his desperation. Shadows slid along the bricks, twisting and forming jagged spears that hovered at the ready. It wasn't smart. It wasn't controlled. It was instinct. And instinct might save him.
Footsteps. Too many of them. Close.
Calen closed his eyes, heart hammering. Do something, he thought, anything.
The first Guild scout appeared, stepping into the alley like a shadow manifest. Its face was obscured by a mask that reflected nothing, eyes invisible. Calen's breath caught.
And then he felt it—the Echo's voice inside him, cold and precise: Strike first.
He opened his eyes. The shadows surged forward. Blades lashed, spears formed, and the alley erupted in black tendrils that struck, twisted, and grabbed with preternatural speed. The scout barely had time to react. A sudden scream, a metallic clang, and the creature stumbled back, disoriented.
Calen staggered, realizing for the first time how fast the Echo reacted, how lethal it could be. He wanted to control it, wanted to use it carefully—but instinct had taken over.
Another scout entered the alley. Another scream. Calen's stomach churned. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. Not yet. But they weren't human. Not really. Not like him. And if he didn't act, they would destroy him.
The Echo pulsed again, whispering, guiding, feeding on fear and instinct. He felt a surge in his chest, sharp and hot, as the shadows obeyed without hesitation. Every movement was premonition, every strike precise.
By the time the last scout fled, disappearing into the street like a wisp of smoke, Calen was trembling. His hands were sticky with something that wasn't quite blood but close enough. The alley was silent, except for his ragged breathing and the faint, low pulse of the Echo against his chest.
He sank to the ground, hugging his knees. What the hell am I? he thought. What did I just do?
And in the distance, above the city, a faint whisper traveled on the wind. Aspirant… you are no longer alone. The Guild knows. They will come again. And next time… you may not survive.
Calen swallowed hard. He had survived the first encounter. But he already knew the truth: surviving the streets had been easy. Surviving the Echo—surviving himself—would be the real challenge.