The truth revealed itself slowly—like a hidden ember under ash, glowing faintly at first, then brighter as it found air.
Aetherka. The villagers whispered it like a prayer, like a blade's name. They believed it was a divine current reserved for the chosen, a river of life flowing only through those born with the right channels. Weavers shaped it into fire, wind, earth, and ice. Bearers pulled it inward, reforging their bodies into living weapons.
And for as long as I had lived in this world, I had believed them—at least, outwardly. Because what choice did I have?
They called us Hollows.
Empty. Faulty. Weak.
Children born without open channels were like tools without edges, husks to be tolerated at best. Our worth was measured in what our hands could carry, not in what our souls could summon.
But Kael and I had broken that certainty.
It had started as a flicker in the night, a hum beneath the soil. Then a rhythm. Then a method. Through stillness and patience, through motion and rhythm, we had found a way—not to command Aetherka, but to match it, to echo it until it resonated within us.
What the villagers called a curse was only a different kind of silence—one that could be broken by finding the right note.
We had named it Resonant Tuning.
And the name felt right.
Because we were no longer just Hollows.
We were something else.
I began to understand the shape of the system—not as a mystic gift but as a structure, a network of possibilities.
There were three kinds of users now, as far as I could see.
First: Naturals.
The Weavers and Bearers, born with open channels like wells already dug into the earth. For them, the energy flowed easily, responding to instinct and will. They were what the world expected: the strong, the chosen, the ones whose names would be carved into stone.
Second: Hollows.
Those like me, born without open channels. We had been told we were empty, defective. But we were not empty—only sealed. Our wells had never been dug.
And now: Echos.
Hollows who had learned to open their own paths, not by force, but by resonance. Not by using the channels of others, but by crafting entirely new ones, each unique to its maker.
We were a third path. One the world had not accounted for.
The differences were already emerging.
I had found my strength in stillness—in quiet observation, deep sensory harmony. By matching the world's patterns until they reflected back within me, I could begin to feel the energy signatures of others. And once I felt them, I discovered something even stranger: I could mimic them. Not perfectly—not yet—but enough to shift my own resonance in response. Like a mirror of energy. Like judo, but with currents instead of limbs.
Kael's path was a storm by comparison. Movement-based resonance. She unlocked her flow through motion—running, dancing, flowing through forms until her heartbeat matched the wind. I watched her once in the open fields, her body a blur of motion under the moonlight, and saw the air around her tremble, streams of wind following the arcs of her limbs. One day soon, she would run faster than arrows. One day soon, she would bend time around her like cloth.
Others would come. I knew it.
Every Hollow carried a different silence. Every Echo would awaken with a different song.
Sound. Pain. Dreams. Mathematics. Who knew what doors could be opened by those desperate enough to knock?
This wasn't just a loophole. It was a revolution waiting to happen.
But revolutions were dangerous.
And I knew my village.
They didn't allow second chances.
Power, here, was not shared. It was hoarded. Worshipped. Weaponized. If the elders learned I had found a way, they would not celebrate me. They would take me apart to learn how it worked, or bury me in the dark to keep their order intact.
So I kept it secret.
I trained at night. I whispered only to Kael. My logs I burned after memorizing them. My resonance I buried under stillness.
To the village, I was still Hollow. Still empty. Still a boy with no spark in his blood.
But beneath the mask, I felt the ember growing.
I thought often of who I had been.
A father. A husband. A man who had built a life with his hands and his love, who had died believing he had given everything.
In that life, I had guided my children through fear. I had shielded them from the world's cruelty as best I could. Here, I was alone. Small. Forgotten. But the instincts had not faded.
I would guide again—this time, not just my children, but all who had been cast aside.
All who had been called Hollow.
All who had been told they were empty.
We were not empty.
We were Echoing.
Sometimes, in the deepest hours of night, I would press my palm to the cold ground and feel it answer faintly, like the heartbeat of the world itself.
That was my spark.
Small. Quiet.
But fire begins as a whisper before it becomes a roar.
And though no one could see it yet, I felt it in my bones.
Soon, I would resound.
This wasn't just about survival anymore.
It was about rewriting the very foundation of power in this world.
The villagers spoke of fate. Of gifts bestowed at birth. Of unchangeable roles.
But I had lived one life already. I had seen men born into poverty rise by their own hands. I had seen walls crumble. I had seen faith shift.
Fate was a cage.
And cages can break.
I rose from the earth, wiping the dirt from my hands. The stars above were cold pinpricks, but their light felt different tonight—clearer, sharper.
The path ahead was still uncertain. My body was still weak. My mastery still flickered like a candle in the wind.
But I was no longer Hollow.
No longer empty.
No longer forgotten.
I was Echoing.
And the world, though it did not know it yet, would one day echo back.