Seren – The Cradle of Echoes, First Threshold
The rocks above groaned with wind. Seren crouched beside the rusted bones of what may have once been a siege lantern, her breath slow and shallow. The soft crunch of boots echoed faintly through the carved passages above.
She had recognized the voice first.
Elen.
She didn't need to see her face to feel the sharp ache it left in her ribs. The woman she had trained beside since she was old enough to hold a blade. The one who had kept her steady through the worst of their campaigns. Now leading a hunt through the Rift.
After her.
Seren had hidden in the shadow of the Cradle for three weeks. She'd mapped half the first layer, sketched the stone ruins and the strange glyphs pulsing just beneath the frost-crusted walls. She had eaten sparingly, slept rarely, and listened—always listened—to the way the Rift breathed.
And now, her breath caught at a junction.
She could descend. She knew the next passage—the one that dipped into the Hollow Garden. Its glow was faint now, a shimmer beneath twisted roots and the faint hum of old growth below.
But it would close behind her.
She looked up.
Back toward the surface. Toward the camp she had built from scraps, where her journal still lay half-written. Where she could rest just once more before the journey turned deadly.
If she left now, she wouldn't be prepared.
If she waited, Elen might find her.
She pressed her palm to the cold stone, felt the whisper of echoes crawl beneath her skin.
Then made her choice.
She turned upward, toward the surface.
Kaelien – Hearth Temple, Kael'Thar
The Flame Circle met without fire.
The central brazier of the Hearth Temple, which usually burned with a steady orange flame, was cold. That meant purpose. And silence.
Kaelien stood before them once again, his back straight, his fists clenched at his sides. The scent of ash and damp moss still clung to his cloak.
"There's a Velmoran in the Rift," said Maeril, her eyes unreadable. "She's gone deeper than most. She's eluded all known patrols. This cannot continue."
Kaelien's mouth was dry. "A scout?"
"A deserter, more likely," said Elder Terys. "But her purpose doesn't matter. What matters is that she's seen too much."
He said nothing.
"She is yours to remove," Maeril added, her voice now gentle. "You've seen the signs. The Rift stirs. We cannot allow Velmoran steel near its roots."
He hesitated.
Maeril's expression did not change, but the firestones on her wrists flared softly, just once. "You still feel it, don't you?"
Kaelien gave a slow nod.
"That means it's waking. That means she's touched something she shouldn't."
A long silence stretched.
"Will you take this charge?" asked Elder Terys.
Kaelien's voice was low. "Yes."
But he didn't leave immediately. He stepped from the temple and stood among the giant stone roots of the Grove of Whispers, his fingers brushing the bark. He thought of the woman from weeks before. The one he hadn't seen clearly. Just a glint of frost and a look in her eyes—like exhaustion sharpened to steel.
What if it was her?
What if she was already lost to the Rift?
Then let mercy die.
Kaelien turned, flames sparking along his boots as he moved.
Seren – The Surface Camp, Just Above the Cradle
The wind here wasn't cold—it was raw. Unfiltered.
Seren knelt in the shallow hollow she had dug between two collapsed pillars. She built a fireless camp: warmth from enchanted stones and silence from sheer exhaustion. She opened her journal.
Threshold One – Cradle of EchoesEchoes do not only belong to sound. Sometimes, memory has its own voice.
Her hand shook as she wrote.
She hadn't cried. Not when she saw Elen. Not when she heard her voice down the passage. But now, alone, knowing that Velmora hunted her—not the Dominion, not the Rift—her own people…
She pressed the pen hard enough to snap the tip.
She closed her eyes.
"I'm not running," she whispered to the wind. "I'm learning. For them. For all of us."
But the silence didn't answer.
Only the Rift did. And it whispered down below, softly… like it welcomed her.
Kaelien – Entering the Cradle
Three days later, he crossed the first threshold.
Firestones in his gauntlet flickered. The magic here was thin but present, layered like sediment over ancient bones. He felt her presence. Or maybe he just hoped he did.
The ruins pulsed faintly.
He knelt. Found tracks. Faint. Fresh.
He rose, not calling out. Not announcing himself.
He would not show mercy this time.