"There is a silence deeper than death—the silence that comes when truth is buried alive."
—From The Letters of Araneth, last chronicler of the Echoed
They left the Dead Valleys at dawn.
The horizon shimmered with pale heat, casting long, ghostly shadows across the frost-covered ground. Though there was no sun—only the dim violet glow of the Wound overhead—everything cast a shadow here. Even things that had no form.
Amine walked in silence, his eyes fixed on the crumbling road ahead. Mira followed beside him, shoulders tense beneath her cloak. Thanor led, his form reduced to a small, flickering silhouette, more ember than beast in this ghostlight.
The world felt hollow.
Not empty—but emptied.
As if something had drained meaning from the land, leaving behind the shape of a world with none of its soul.
Their next destination was Kael'Sareth, the Cradle City.
Or what was left of it.
The city had once been a bastion of pre-mage civilization, a place where humans first discovered the properties of arcana-infused stone. It was said to have been built atop one of the nine foundation spires—pillars of unknown origin that rose from the earth like the bones of a buried god.
Few dared approach them now.
Rumors claimed the spires could whisper.
That they remembered the stars.
As they crossed a ridge and gazed down upon the shattered remains of Kael'Sareth, Amine's breath caught in his throat.
The city was… singing.
Not with music.
But with resonance.
Stone trembled. Air shimmered. The towers that remained standing were cracked open like flower petals, each one pulsing faintly with a low, harmonic frequency that could be felt more than heard.
Mira knelt, pressing a hand to the ground.
"It's alive," she whispered. "The city isn't ruins. It's... listening."
Amine closed his eyes.
He could feel it too.
Not a voice. Not a thought.
A question.
"Who remembers us?"
They passed through broken arches and wind-carved alleys. The buildings were etched with spirals and glyphs unlike any mage-formed sigils—less a language, more a song carved into matter itself.
At the city's heart stood the spire.
It reached upward like a finger seeking to pierce the Wound, its base cracked and warped, yet still somehow whole. Around it, the ground was smooth, untouched by time or decay.
Mira paused at the base of the spire. "This was a place of binding," she said. "Not of magic. Of memory."
Amine stepped forward.
As he touched the stone, the world shifted again.
He fell.
Not in body—in mind.
A downward spiral of visions, light collapsing into shadow and back again. Voices without words. Images without form.
And then—a room.
Circular. Silent.
Filled with seated figures made of glass and flame. They sat in judgment not of him, but of a memory.
A trial.
And in the center—a child.
Small. Alone. Not crying. Not afraid.
The child looked up at the gathered council.
"I heard the stars speak," the child said. "And they told me the truth. That we were not the first."
The figures whispered. Denied. Doubted.
The child did not flinch.
"They came before us. They fell. And we will fall too, unless we listen."
And then—chaos.
The vision shattered.
Amine awoke with blood on his lip.
Mira held him steady, eyes wide. "What did you see?"
"I saw a child who remembered what no one else wanted to."
He looked up at the spire.
"And they punished him for it."
They camped again that night in the shadow of Kael'Sareth.
Mira was quiet, watching the dancing lights flicker atop the distant spire like stars caught in stone.
Amine stared into the fire.
"I think," he said slowly, "that truth doesn't die. It hides. It waits. And when enough lies are built on top of it, it begins to scream."
"Not everyone wants to hear it," Mira said.
He nodded. "I know. But someone has to answer."
Thanor stirred, restless.
Amine understood why.
Even in silence, the city still sang.
And its song was growing louder.
Later, when Mira slept, Amine walked alone to the edge of the spire's light.
He thought of Tokyo.
Of concrete and steel, of train stations and vending machines and classroom windows that always fogged in winter.
He thought of that boy—himself—sitting alone on a rooftop.
Back then, silence had felt like a punishment.
But now, it felt like a space waiting to be filled.
With meaning.
With memory.
With truth.
As the wind picked up, it carried a new scent—one that did not belong to this place.
Ash. Smoke. Ozone.
Amine turned just in time to see a tear rip open the air.
And out stepped a figure.
Cloaked.
Masked.
Eyes burning like twin eclipses.
No dragon. No mage.
Something else.
Something that had heard the scream of the stars—and chosen not to look away.
It spoke in a voice layered over itself, as though many mouths spoke in perfect unison:
"You are the echo."
"We are the cause."
"And the gate is opening."
Amine reached for his power, but it wasn't fear that moved him.
It was recognition.
This being had been in his visions.
This was the figure who had walked toward the source.
The one who remembered.
"What are you?" Amine asked.
The figure tilted its head.
"I am the memory of silence."
And then it vanished.
No ripple. No trace.
Only a burning glyph etched into the air where it had stood:
A circle within a circle.
A gate.
Opening.