Dawn crept slowly into the canyon, thin and pale, like a traveller too exhausted to fully rise. The light slid across the stone walls, catching in crevices and painting long shadows over the caravan's encampment. Fires smouldered low. Most of the travellers stirred only reluctantly, wrapped in blankets still damp from the previous night's storm.
John had slept little.
Not that anyone would have noticed. He stood at the eastern edge of the camp, boots planted on cool stone, arms crossed, watching the canyon mouth with the caution of a man expecting the dark to rearrange itself.
No Ridgeclaws. No shadowy figures on the ridges. Only the whisper of morning wind.
For now.
Behind him, the caravan began its slow resurrection—guards patrolling, waggoners checking axles and wheels, families preparing simple meals from dwindling supplies. Every injury had a story. Every silence had an echo.
John turned as he heard footsteps approach. Doris made her way toward him, walking slowly, but with more strength than the night before. She was wrapped in a thick cloak, her hair braided back to keep it off her face. Brian was strapped to her chest in a sling of woven wool, small and sleeping soundly.
"He's still out?" John asked, softening his voice.
Doris nodded. "Ate, fussed a little, and fell asleep again." She brushed a fingertip across Brian's cheek. "He's warm, but stable."
"That warmth…" John began.
"I know," Doris said quietly. "We'll talk. But not here. Not yet." She drew a deeper breath,
then let it out slowly. "Dorothy said we should meet her by the canyon markers. She found something."
"Something?" John straightened.
"Something old, she said. Something… wrong."
John's stomach tightened, but he nodded. "Let's go."
Dorothy waited near a stone formation at the canyon's mouth. The outcropping resembled three tall slabs leaning toward each other—natural, but too symmetrical to feel accidental. Her staff rested at her side, and her hood was down, revealing eyes that hadn't slept either.
She didn't look at them at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the sand at her feet.
John noticed the pattern immediately.
Strange lines traced through the dust—circular, spiralling, intersecting in ways that made the air feel subtly off-balance. The lines had been carved with precision; the sand etched as if by a sharp instrument. Or claws.
No.
Not claws.
Symbols.
Doris inhaled sharply. "Dorothy… are those—"
"Yes," Dorothy said. "Paragon Sigil's."
John's pulse quickened. "They were here? Actually here?"
"They called the Ridgeclaws," Dorothy said. "Not with direct command—they aren't that kind of cult. But they used the storm to amplify resonance. Ridgeclaws follow apex energy. Violence. Pain. Birth." Her eyes flicked toward Brian. "Magic, especially when it's… unusual."
Doris tightened the sling protectively.
John's jaw clenched. "How long before they come again?"
Dorothy knelt and touched a fingertip to one of the spirals. The sand recoiled from her touch, shivering like disturbed water. "This was made just before the Ridgeclaws
attacked," she murmured. "Whoever carved it was close enough to hear the wagon being torn apart."
John felt his hand twitch toward his sword.
Doris whispered, "They were watching us?"
Dorothy nodded once. "Or watching for something like you. Or both."
John crouched beside the symbols, studying them. He had no talent for deciphering them, but the lines made him uneasy. They seemed to twist visually, warping slightly whenever he blinked.
"They look… alive," John said.
"They're not," Dorothy replied. "But they are designed to mimic resonance patterns.
Primitive versions of what your wife's ancestors did expertly."
Doris flinched. "Don't say it like that."
Dorothy's expression softened. "I'm sorry. I only mean that Voidborn resonance is… distinct. Even amateur attempts to imitate it create vibrations. The Paragons exploit those vibrations to draw predators. They test reactions. They look for signatures in the chaos."
"Signatures?" John repeated.
"Yes," Dorothy said. "Unique metaphysical impressions left by powerful events. A birth is one. Especially his birth. The Ridgeclaws came for blood and storm—but something else came for him."
Doris tightened her hold on Brian instinctively.
"What else?" John pressed.
Dorothy rose slowly, brushing dust from her palms. "I only know their name for it: the Echo. A kind of magical footprint. It lingers. Moves. Calls. And now it's tied to him."
John's hand curled into a fist. "How do we get rid of it?"
"You don't," Dorothy said. "It's not a curse. It's a consequence."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Finally, Doris spoke, voice trembling. "So, what do we do?"
Dorothy's gaze moved between them—man, woman, child.
"You walk a straight road," she said. "No detours. No lingering."
"To the capital," John said grimly.
"To the Academy," Dorothy confirmed. "The wards there are ancient. Some even predate
the Empire. With luck, they'll dampen this… Echo. Maybe hide it."
John frowned. "You sound unsure."
Dorothy gave a thin, tired smile. "That's because I am."
They returned to camp as the sun began rising higher. The caravan stirred more strongly now—people eating meagre breakfasts, guards checking bowstrings and replacing broken spearheads. Children poked at the embers of the morning fire, unaware of how close they had come to death.
As John and Doris approached their wagon, Flint appeared from behind it. He was a lanky man, younger by several years than John, with a mop of dark hair tied back and a dagger strapped to each hip. His eyes were sharp, quick, born of a mind that made connections faster than most.
"Morning," Flint said. "Looks like you two have been talking to the storm-witch."
Doris gave him a tired look. "Her name is Dorothy."
Flint shrugged. "Storm-witch suits her better."
John managed a faint smirk. "What are you doing up this early? You hate mornings."
"I hate mornings when they're quiet," Flint corrected. "After last night, this one is suspiciously calm." He leaned in slightly, his gaze drifting to Brian. "How's the little fighter?"
"Sleeping," Doris said.
"Good," Flint replied. "He earned it." His gaze flicked to John. "We all did."
John studied the younger man. Flint had been with the caravan for nearly two years, joining them after a border skirmish claimed the rest of his scouting band. He was resourceful, cunning, and often annoyingly perceptive.
And dangerous, in his own unmagical way.
"I heard Gerran," Flint said, lowering his voice. "We're heading straight to the capital."
"That's the plan," John confirmed.
Flint nodded; expression unreadable. "Smart. Safer there."
"Safer?" Doris echoed. "Nothing is ever safe."
Flint smiled faintly. "Safer than here. And safer than wherever those storm-born symbols
came from."
John stiffened. "You saw them?"
"Hard to miss when half the guards are whispering about them," Flint said. Then, more seriously: "They're watching us, John. Or watching him."
John's hand moved subtly toward his sword hilt.
Flint held up a hand. "Not saying we panic. Just saying we don't travel blind."
"We won't," John said.
Flint inclined his head. "Good."
He ducked back around the wagon, muttering something about checking the rear flanks.
John watched him go. Flint was carefree on the surface, but smarter than he pretended.
And John trusted him more than most.
But not entirely.
Not with this.
By noon, the caravan was ready.
Wagons were arranged in a long column, guards spaced with tightened ranks, scouts already out ahead. The canyon walls began sloping downward as they exited the basin, the land opening into rolling hills and scattered brush.
John walked beside Doris's wagon again, hand never straying far from his sword.
Doris leaned against the padded backrest, complexion pale but steadier. Brian continued to sleep, unfazed by the jostling.
Dorothy walked near the front, staff in hand, occasionally touching the air as though
testing invisible strings.
Gerran rode alongside the left flank, barking orders when necessary.
Flint appeared and disappeared like a shadow, slipping between wagons, exchanging words with scouts, checking for signs of pursuit.
Hours passed.
The weather cleared gradually, storm clouds thinning into streaks of silver. Birds returned to the skies. The world smelled of wet earth and crushed pine.
For a time, it might have almost been peaceful.
Almost.
John noticed it first—a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a faint tremor beneath the earth.
He raised a hand. "Stop."
The guards nearest him froze. Wagon wheels creaked into silence.
Doris straightened, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"
John listened.
The tremor grew—steady, rhythmic. Not the random rumble of distant thunder. Something moving. Many somethings.
Flint appeared atop a nearby wagon, scanning the horizon. "North ridge," he said. "See it?"
John followed his gaze.
Shapes moved along the top of the distant slope—dark specks at first, then clearer. Not Ridgeclaws. Their silhouettes were too upright. Cloaked. Deliberate.
Travelers?
No.
John felt it immediately.
Doris felt it too. Her hand went to Brian instinctively.
Dorothy's staff thudded into the dirt. "Keep moving!" she snapped. "Don't run, don't stop—move!"
Gerran shouted orders. The column lurched forward again, faster. Guards tightened ranks. Archers aimed upward.
The shapes on the ridge held their position, watching.
Watching Brian.
John's heart hammered.
They weren't attacking—not yet. But their presence was enough.
A message.
We see you.
Dorothy moved closer to John and Doris; her face drawn tight. "They won't strike now," she said. "Not while the sun is high. Not while the caravan is on alert." She swallowed. "But they're letting us know they're there."
Doris whispered, "How far will they go?"
Dorothy's answer was quiet, but it chilled John to the bone.
"As far as they must."
The cloaked figures remained on the ridge for hours, always in sight, always distant, never advancing. A silent horizon-shadow.
By dusk, they were gone.
But their absence was no comfort.
Only a promise.
Night fell gently this time.
No storm. No beasts. No attacks.
But the caravan slept uneasily.
John and Doris sat together near their wagon; Brian nestled between them. A small fire crackled quietly. Sparks drifted upward, carried by the breeze before winking out.
"He's quiet tonight," John murmured.
"He's exhausted," Doris said. "It's too much for a newborn. His body's overwhelmed."
John nodded.
Silence stretched, soft and heavy.
"When he used the wind and fire," John said slowly, "in the wagon… it wasn't like anything I've seen. Not in anyone so young. Not ever."
Doris didn't answer immediately. She stared into the fire; expression haunted.
"I hoped it would skip him," she whispered.
"The inheritance. The resonance. The…
bloodline."
John exhaled. "Doris… I know you've tried to keep me away from certain things. Old stories. Old truths. But if he's in danger because of who he is—"
"He's in danger because of who I am," she said quietly. "Because of what my family was. And because the world is still paying for their mistakes."
She looked at Brian, sleeping peacefully, tiny fingers curled in a fist.
"He is Voidborn," she said softly, the words trembling. "And something more."
John felt the canyon's night air grow colder around them.
"Tell me," he said.
Doris met his gaze, fear and love warring in her eyes.
"I will," she whispered. "But not tonight."
John nodded slowly.
"Tomorrow," she promised. "After we cross the last ridge before the lowlands. I'll tell you everything I ran from."
John wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, weary.
Around them, the caravan settled. Fires dimmed. Voices softened.
Above, the stars began to appear—sharp and cold in the clear night sky.
Brian stirred, eyes fluttering open just slightly. For a heartbeat, John thought he saw the firelight bend toward the infant—subtle, almost shy.
A whisper of resonance.
A whisper of power.
A whisper of destiny.
John brushed a thumb over Brian's tiny hand. "Rest while you can," he murmured.
Because tomorrow, truths would begin to unfold.
And the road to the Academy would only grow darker.