The first ally arrived at dawn.
He emerged from the mist beyond the Hidden Sanctum's outer ridges, thin, wary, and carrying a blade etched with half-forgotten sigils. His steps hesitated at the boundary where echoes thickened, as if the air itself were watching him. Mara felt him before she saw him—a faint tug in the web she had begun to weave, a single thread vibrating with uncertainty and resolve.
"Someone's crossed the threshold," Cael said quietly.
Mara stepped forward, the shards at her side dimmed deliberately. "Let him enter without fear."
The echoes parted.
The young man fell to one knee the moment he saw her, not in reverence, but exhaustion. "I felt the call," he said hoarsely. "Didn't know where it would lead. Only that if I ignored it, something in me would break."
Mara knelt before him, meeting his eyes. "You answered because you still choose alignment over comfort. That choice matters more than strength."
Behind him, more threads stirred.
By midday, three others had arrived: the glyph-reader from the forest enclave, her hands stained with ink and sap; the scholar from the tower, eyes sharp but haunted; and a silent woman who carried no shard at all, yet whose presence bent the echoes subtly around her. Each arrival strengthened the web, but Mara felt the cost immediately—pressure, resistance, something pushing back.
"They feel us," Cael warned. "The Marked Ones are no longer guessing."
The air darkened as if in answer.
The first attack did not come with fire or blades, but doubt.
That night, whispers threaded through the sanctum—not echoes of memory, but distortions. Half-truths. Questions sharpened into weapons.
Why her?
Why now?
What happens when she fails?
The scholar woke screaming, clutching his head as false memories clawed into his thoughts. The young swordsman lashed out at shadows that wore Mara's face. Even the silent woman staggered, her calm fractured by something unseen.
Mara felt it like a blade between her ribs.
"They're striking the threads," she said, voice tight. "Not us. The connections."
Cael planted his staff into the stone, runes flaring. "Psychic corrosion. They're testing the web for weakness."
Mara closed her eyes and stepped fully into the echoes.
For the first time, she did not reach outward—but inward, along every thread she had woven. She felt fear, hope, anger, grief. She did not suppress them. She acknowledged them.
"I will not promise safety," her voice echoed through the sanctum, carried by the web itself. "I will promise clarity. You are here because you chose to be. If you leave, the echoes will not punish you. If you stay, you will be tested."
The whispers faltered.
Then the real attack came.
The ground trembled as corrupted echoes breached the outer wards—shapes stitched together from broken gods and stolen will. At their center stood three Marked Ones, faces hidden behind sigils burned into flesh, their shards glowing with violent intensity.
"They came in force," the glyph-reader whispered. "They mean to shatter the web before it matures."
Mara stepped forward, shards igniting. "Then we show them it already has strength."
The battle was chaos.
The young swordsman fought with desperation, his blade singing as echoes flowed through steel. The glyph-reader carved symbols into the air, binding corrupted forms mid-strike. The scholar, trembling but resolute, anchored defensive memories, stabilizing the sanctum's core.
And Mara—Mara did not fight alone.
She moved through the web, reinforcing weak threads, redirecting power, amplifying intent. When a Marked One struck at her mind, the silent woman intervened, absorbing the blow and turning it aside without a word.
Cael clashed directly with one of the Marked Ones, their staffs colliding in a burst of light and shadow. "You misunderstand," he said coldly. "This is no longer an awakening you control."
The Marked One laughed. "No web survives fire."
Mara raised the prime shard.
"No," she said, voice resonant with every thread she held. "But some learn to burn brighter."
She released the web—not as a weapon, but as resonance.
The allies felt it instantly. Their fears steadied. Their intent sharpened. The echoes aligned, flowing between them in living currents. The corrupted forms screamed as coherence unraveled them. One Marked One staggered, shards cracking under the strain of unified resistance.
They retreated.
Not defeated—but shaken.
When silence finally returned, the sanctum was scarred, but standing. The allies gathered, bruised, exhausted, alive.
"They'll be back," the swordsman said.
"Yes," Mara replied. "And stronger."
The silent woman finally spoke, her voice soft and steady. "So will we."
Mara looked at the web she had woven—not perfect, not invincible, but real. Tested. Proven.
The Marked Ones had drawn first blood against her alliances.
They had also made their greatest mistake.
They had shown her where the web could break—and where it could endure.
And now, she would strengthen it.