The ranger post sat like a forgotten tooth between two hills, half-swallowed by moss and time. It was not meant to be hidden—just isolated. A high-roofed structure of old red pine, its ward-stones cracked and unlit, and its watchtower dark as a snuffed lantern.
Evelyn hesitated before stepping inside.
The world felt… muffled. No birdsong. No wind. Even their boots made little sound against the stone threshold. Not silence, exactly—more like the world was holding its breath.
Torren limped behind her, blade ready but eyes distant. He hadn't spoken much since the fire-light she'd called up the night before.
Inside, dust coated everything. A map lay pinned to the central table, corners curled with age, its ink faded to rust tones. On the wall, hunting trophies hung askew—one with its antlers snapped. Beneath the wall was a ledger desk, its drawers half open, as if rifled in a hurry.
Torren moved to check the rations while Evelyn approached the map. It was a relief to see something static, predictable: five kingdoms marked in colored inks, rivers like veins. But across the southern border—just north of their home—was a line of charcoal strokes labeled only: Grey March Zone — Clearance Pending.
"Isenhold isn't even listed," she muttered.
"No outpost ever updated after the last Guild recall," Torren said. "They stopped funding the rangers down here three winters ago."
She ran her hand over a newer sheet—less faded, tucked beneath the top map. Scribbled in her mother's hand.
Her stomach dropped.
Evelyn – if this finds you, listen carefully. Do not trust the silence. The wards fell weeks ago, but they did not scream. They listened. They're learning.
The core you touched is not dead. It waits. Let it guide you—but do not lose yourself to it. The dreams will begin. Do not sing back.
—M.
Her hand shook. The ink hadn't run. It hadn't rained in here.
Torren read over her shoulder. "Your mother was here?"
"She knew," Evelyn whispered. "Before everything. She knew."
There was more—notes scrawled in margins: "Dual-echoed behavior confirmed. Maintain 3:1 watch ratio. No lone patrols. Avoid the water."
A page torn and pinned with a bone splinter showed a crude sketch: A creature with a split torso, two heads weeping black fluid. One human, one beast.
Torren swore under his breath. "This is worse than anyone said. The Guilds—if they knew—"
"They did," Evelyn said.
He looked up.
"She was trying to get this to them. To warn them. That's why she sent me to the herbalist. That's why she looked so pale that night."
Torren turned toward the hearth, where the ash had long since cooled.
"Then the Echoed came before the wards failed," he muttered.
Evelyn nodded, breath cold. "Or the wards didn't fail. They let them through."
They slept in shifts that night, surrounded by old walls and older ghosts.
And when Evelyn closed her eyes, the dream returned.
The field of fire.
The silver-eyed woman stood closer now. Not singing. Watching.
And this time, when Evelyn tried to turn away—
She heard her own voice whisper back: "I see you."