The city of Aeroth was a living, breathing entity. The tall spires of the Central District stretched toward the sky like dark fingers reaching for the heavens, their windows reflecting the faint, dying light of the setting sun. The streets below, however, pulsed with life in a different way. The lower districts—grimy, crowded, and teeming with secrets—sang a song of desperation, of forgotten hopes, of lives that could be snuffed out without a second thought. Zara's boots clicked against the cobblestones as she made her way through the labyrinthine streets, each step echoing in the stillness like a promise to herself.
The world she knew had shifted, twisted like a knot in her gut. The cult, the murders, the whispers—they were all connected to her. She could feel it now, deep in her bones. No longer could she afford to pretend that she didn't have a part to play. She was in this, whether she liked it or not. But even with the newfound knowledge that had rushed through her mind like wildfire, there was one thing that gnawed at her: who was the true enemy?
The alleyways seemed darker today, the shadows reaching further than they had before. Her senses were heightened, every rustling of the wind, every distant murmur, every fleeting glance from a stranger sending waves of unease through her. But it wasn't just fear. No. This was something far more primal.
She was being watched.
Zara quickened her pace, her gaze darting from side to side, but all she saw were the same broken walls and flickering streetlights. It could have been paranoia. The visions, the whispers—they were all too new to her. But even the most rational part of her mind couldn't deny the sensation. There was someone, or something, following her.
She turned a corner sharply, stepping into a narrow passage between two dilapidated buildings. The stench of mold and rot filled the air, the walls covered in creeping ivy and graffiti. This was the part of the city she hated—the forgotten part. Where the poor, the desperate, and the lost roamed like ghosts in the shadows.
Her heart pounded as she stepped forward, her mind spinning with what she'd learned in the past twenty-four hours. The black vial. The cult. The murderers who had been carving the same symbol into their victims. It was all connected to the Echoes of Solace—a name she had once heard only in passing, a legend she had dismissed as myth. But now, it was real, and it was inside her, clawing its way to the surface.
The cold air pressed against her skin, the weight of it pulling her thoughts back to the present. She couldn't afford to lose herself in the past. She needed answers, and she needed them now.
Zara's thoughts were interrupted by a low, gravelly voice that echoed through the alley, sending a shiver down her spine. "You're not very good at hiding, Zara."
She froze.
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Slowly, she turned, her pulse quickening as her eyes fell on the figure standing in the shadows. A man, tall and cloaked in a dark, weathered hood. His face was obscured, but there was no mistaking the aura of power that radiated from him. He wasn't a stranger to her. She had seen him before—once, long ago, when the world still made sense.
"Who are you?" Zara's voice was sharp, demanding, as she instinctively reached for the dagger hidden beneath her jacket. The cold metal of the hilt calmed her nerves, but it didn't help the unease gnawing at the edges of her mind.
The man stepped forward, his movements smooth and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. "You know who I am. Or at least, you should."
Zara's breath hitched. "You're him."
He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Smart girl. But don't think that makes you safe. You've crossed a line, Zara. The Echoes don't take kindly to traitors."
Her stomach tightened. Traitors?
"Traitors?" she echoed, her voice incredulous. "I'm not a traitor. I've never been a part of your damn cult."
He laughed, a sound that was far too cold, too mocking. "Oh, but you are, Zara. You always have been. You were born into it. You just don't remember it yet."
Her heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"
The man stepped into the dim light of the alley, and Zara's breath caught in her throat. The face she saw was not the face of a stranger. It was familiar—too familiar. Dark eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline she had once traced with trembling fingers. This man was—was—
"No…" Her voice faltered, but it wasn't fear that filled her. It was disbelief. "You can't be…"
"Oh, but I am," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Your brother."
Zara's knees threatened to buckle, but she stood tall, forcing the shock to the back of her mind. The brother she had lost, the one whose death had scarred her in ways that words couldn't explain, had been standing before her all along.
"But—" She swallowed, trying to steady herself. "You're dead. I saw you die." The memory was vivid—she was only fourteen at the time, but she had never forgotten that night, the blood, the betrayal, the screams. He had been killed by the very people who should have protected him.
"That's what they told you," he said, his voice darkening. "But that's not the truth. The truth is that I was saved. And I've been watching you, Zara. I've been waiting."
Her mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle finally beginning to fit together. His disappearance, his death—it had all been part of the plan. "Why?" she asked, though she knew the answer. "Why didn't you come for me? Why didn't you warn me?"
He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Because you needed to find it for yourself. You needed to find your power. You needed to remember what you are."
Zara's fists clenched. The anger, the betrayal—it was overwhelming. What power? What am I? The question reverberated in her mind, but before she could voice it, the world around them shifted.
There was a sudden crack, a snap in the air, and then the man's expression changed. It was barely noticeable, but Zara saw it—a flicker of something that wasn't human. His eyes flashed with a dark, otherworldly gleam before he blinked, and it was gone.
The moment passed.
"I've come to help you, Zara," he said, his voice softer now, as though speaking to a fragile thing. "But first, you need to make a choice."
Zara took a step back. "What kind of choice?"
His lips curled into a smile. "A choice that will decide everything. The Echoes are moving against you. And if you don't make your decision soon, they'll come for you."
Zara's breath quickened. "What do you mean, 'come for me'?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at her hand, where the tattoo of the Echoes—a black crescent moon intertwined with a serpent—was faintly visible beneath her sleeve. It was a symbol she had never understood, but now, with the weight of his gaze upon it, Zara understood that it meant far more than she had ever realized.
"Your choice," he said, his tone turning grave, "will determine whether you stand with them… or against them."
***
Zara backed away instinctively, her boots scraping the cobblestones. Her brother—Noel—stood with hands outstretched, expression torn between warning and invitation. The air grew colder, tighter, charged with some force she didn't understand.
"I don't trust you," she said, her voice low but steady. "You show up out of nowhere after being dead for ten years, wearing that symbol, speaking about the Echoes like they're your family?"
"They are my family," he said simply. "And they're yours too. You just haven't accepted it yet."
"I buried my family," she growled. "You died in the fire. I was there!"
Noel's expression darkened. "You saw what they wanted you to see. I didn't die in the fire, Zara—I was taken. They burned our house to erase me. To punish me for resisting. But I didn't die. The Echoes found me, saved me, and showed me who I really am. Who we are."
Zara shook her head. Her mind screamed for clarity, for logic. But logic meant nothing in the world she had stepped into last night—the world with blood-filled visions and whispers in the dark.
"You don't get to walk in here and talk like you know me," she spat. "You're not my brother anymore. My brother didn't slaughter people in alleyways. He didn't align with cults."
Noel's eyes glinted in the shadows. "You think I chose this?" he asked quietly. "You think I wanted this madness? I was made into this. They tore me apart and rebuilt me from the inside out. And they've been watching you, Zara. Preparing you. You were always meant to awaken."
The mark on her arm—barely visible hours ago—suddenly throbbed. Burning, like fire licking beneath her skin. She gritted her teeth, instinctively clutching her sleeve.
Noel saw her reaction and stepped forward slowly. "It's starting. The seal is weakening. Your Echo is waking."
"My Echo?"
He nodded solemnly. "A fragment of the First Voice. We're not just flesh, Zara. We are conduits. Receivers. When the soul breaks, an Echo takes root."
Zara blinked hard, disbelief battling with the undeniable truth she felt in her bones. "You're talking like we're not human."
"We're not," Noel said simply. "Not anymore."
Before she could argue, something shifted behind her. A presence—cold and slithering—brushed the back of her neck. She spun, eyes narrowing. The alley behind her was empty.
"Do you feel it?" Noel asked softly. "They're coming."
Zara turned back to him, pulse quickening. "Who?"
Noel looked up at the darkening sky. "The Hollowed. The ones who gave up their minds willingly. Vessels for the First Voice. They've caught your scent now."
"And what do they want?"
He met her gaze with eerie calm. "To rip your Echo from your soul before you bond with it. To leave you hollow. Dead inside, but walking. Like them."
Zara's fingers found the dagger again. Not for protection. For control.
"You think I'm just going to accept all this? That I'm going to follow you back into some twisted cult because of a birthmark and a few hallucinations?"
"You will," he said, voice like cold steel. "Not because you trust me. But because you'll have no choice. Your blood is already burning. Your Echo is bleeding through. And soon, you won't know what's you and what's it."
A sudden snap echoed behind her, like brittle bone breaking. She turned just in time to see something emerge from the wall—its outline barely discernible, cloaked in living shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a gaping, shifting hole where its head should be.
Zara leapt back, dagger raised. "What the hell is that?"
"Hollowed Warden," Noel muttered, already drawing a jagged blade from his coat. "It's early. I wasn't expecting one yet."
The Warden lunged. But Noel moved faster. His blade shimmered with purple energy, slicing the creature's limb before it struck. It let out a screech like iron dragging against bone, retreating momentarily.
Zara's heart pounded. Her arm burned hotter. Her eyes darted to Noel—fighting with precision, strength—and then to the beast, which melted into the shadows only to reappear behind her.
It's hunting me.
Zara dropped into a crouch, dodging its next lunge. Instinct took over. The dagger in her hand grew warm—too warm. A flash of blinding white surged from its blade as she swung, slicing across the Warden's chest.
It screamed.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
Noel cursed. "You activated it early!"
The mark on Zara's arm blazed, the crescent moon twisting, the serpent unraveling like a burning brand.
A voice—not hers—whispered in her mind.
"Finally, you wake."
She fell to her knees. Visions exploded across her mind—an ocean of blood, a throne of bone, wings of obsidian rising from the corpse of a god. Her hands trembled. The dagger hummed with an unnatural frequency.
Noel grabbed her shoulders. "Zara. Zara! You have to stay with me!"
She looked up, eyes wide, glowing faintly. "I saw it. The throne. The one from the dream…"
He froze. "Then it's worse than I thought."
Behind them, the Warden shrieked again. Others began to rise from the dark. Two. Three. Four. The air rippled with corruption.
"Run?" Zara asked weakly.
Noel shook his head. "No more running. You've been awakened. They won't stop until you're hollowed or claimed."
He turned toward the nearest Warden and charged. Zara stared after him, then looked at the blade in her hand.
It wasn't just steel anymore.
It was alive.
A living piece of her.
She rose, slow but sure, and followed him into the chaos.
Whatever this Echo was…
Whatever she was becoming…
She would not let it define her.
She would wield it.
And she would survive.
Even if she had to burn the world to do it.