Morning came late to Valerium City.The sun, reluctant as always, crawled above the iron rooftops, spilling light across the fog-drowned streets like a half-forgotten promise.
Kaelen woke to the ache.
It began as a throb — soft at first, then sharp enough to pull him from sleep. His arm burned beneath the bandages. He sat up in the narrow bed, heart pounding, and unwrapped the linen.
The mark glowed faintly, even in daylight.
A network of blue veins sprawled across his forearm, thin as spider silk, pulsing with a rhythm that wasn't his own. Every beat sent a shimmer through his skin, like light trapped beneath glass.
He touched it. Cold.Then hot.Then nothing.
For a moment, he thought he heard breathing — quiet and hollow, as though his own arm exhaled.
He stumbled from bed, half in panic, half in awe. The small room — cracked walls, the smell of salt and dust — felt suddenly smaller.
From the next room came the soft sound of his mother humming.
He forced his sleeve down, pretending the glow wasn't there. Pretending it hadn't happened.
In the kitchen, Althea ir'Solarys stirred a pot of broth that barely qualified as food. Her face was thin, her hair tied back with a piece of old ribbon. She smiled when she saw him, and for a moment the world seemed normal again.
"Morning, Kael. You're up early for once."
"Couldn't sleep," he said, sitting.
She handed him a chipped bowl. "Bad dreams again?"
He hesitated. "Something like that."
The smell of the broth was weak, but warm. It steadied him.
She noticed his arm. "You hurt yourself?"
"Just… splinters from work."
Her eyes lingered too long. He looked away.
The silence that followed was full — not empty. Full of all the things they didn't say: the missing wages, the medicine they couldn't afford, the way his father sat in the other room staring at the wall since the accident on the docks last year.
Althea finally sighed. "You can find another job. You always do."
Kaelen wanted to believe her.
But in Valerium City, work was bought by reputation — and he'd just lost his.
Later that morning, he found Roric waiting outside his home, leaning against the rusted railing like he owned the whole street.
"You look like death warmed over," Roric said cheerfully.
"Good morning to you too."
"I brought breakfast." He produced two rolls wrapped in paper. "From the baker's daughter. Don't ask how I got them."
Kaelen bit into one. "Stole them?"
"Borrowed indefinitely."
The simple taste of bread — stale, but real — felt almost divine.
They ate in silence for a while, watching the city wake.
Valerium was a living thing — a sprawl of gears and towers, of smoke and prayer. Above them, bridges of fluxstone crossed the sky, humming faintly as aethertrains glided past. On the ground, merchants opened their stalls, shouting about fresh wares no one could afford.
Life, indifferent to tragedy, moved on.
"So," Roric said at last. "You going to tell me what really happened last night?"
Kaelen kept his gaze on the street. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
He hesitated, then told him — the voice, the light, the crate bursting open. The mark. The whispers.
Roric listened, chewing slowly, not laughing, not interrupting. When Kaelen finished, he leaned back and exhaled.
"Well," he said finally. "Either you're going mad… or you just touched something that wants to be found."
Kaelen frowned. "That's supposed to be comforting?"
"Depends on the kind of mad."
He threw the paper into the gutter and stood. "Let's go back to the docks."
Kaelen blinked. "Why?"
"Because I don't like mysteries that can get us killed. You said that crate had markings. Maybe we can trace where it came from."
"You're serious?"
Roric grinned. "I'm not letting you face haunted boxes alone, Kael. You'd just apologize to them."
By the time they reached the docks, the morning fog had lifted, revealing the charred wreckage of the pier. Guards from the City Enforcers had cordoned off the area with glowing sigil-lines that pulsed a faint crimson — barriers against flux contamination.
Roric crouched beside a broken plank. The runes still shimmered faintly, etched into the wood like frost.
"These symbols," he murmured. "They're not trade sigils. They're… Resonant seals."
Kaelen knelt beside him. The pattern looked familiar — the same flowing spirals, the same triple-curve design that glowed when he touched it.
"I've seen this before," Kaelen said quietly.
"Where?"
He hesitated. "In a book, once. A history of Relic Hunters. It's… a containment script. Used to bind things that aren't supposed to exist."
Roric whistled. "So, what was in there? A ghost?"
"Maybe something worse."
They slipped around the guards and found what they were looking for — the manifest board nailed to the wall of the dockmaster's office. Kaelen scanned the entries. Most were trade shipments: textiles, metals, flux crystals.
Then he saw it — written in faint ink.
Shipment 44-B — Origin: Elarion / Destination: Solarys Research Division.Contents classified under "Relic Category: Echo-Grade."
Roric read over his shoulder. "Echo-Grade? I thought those were banned after the Concordium riots."
"They were."
They shared a look.
"Kael," Roric said slowly. "If that crate came from Elarion and was labeled Echo-Grade… that means someone's smuggling relics. Dangerous ones."
Kaelen's throat felt dry. "And I broke it."
"Yeah," Roric said grimly. "And now they'll come looking for whoever did."
They didn't have to wait long.
That evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, three men arrived at the door of Kaelen's home.
They weren't city guards.
Their coats were fine, lined with flux-thread. The sigil of a coiled serpent gleamed on their lapels — Flux Cartel.
The man in front — tall, clean-shaven, eyes like polished steel — smiled as Kaelen opened the door.
"Evening," he said smoothly. "Kaelen ir'Solarys, is it?"
Kaelen's pulse quickened. "Who's asking?"
"Let's call me a concerned businessman. You broke something last night. Something very expensive."
"I didn't—"
The man stepped closer. "You did. Our crate. Our investment. You see, Flux Cartel finances certain… acquisitions. And when an acquisition is destroyed, someone pays the price."
Behind him, the other two shifted — one cracking his knuckles, the other fingering a small device that pulsed faintly blue.
Kaelen swallowed. "I don't have money."
"Oh, I'm sure you don't." The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But we're reasonable. You'll work for us instead. A debt repaid in labor. Simple, isn't it?"
Kaelen's mother appeared behind him, her voice trembling. "Please, he's just a boy—"
The man turned to her slowly. "Then perhaps you'd prefer to pay his debt, madam?"
Kaelen stepped between them. "Leave her out of this!"
Something inside him pulsed — sharp, electric.
The leader's smirk faltered. "What was that?"
Kaelen didn't answer. His arm had begun to glow through the fabric, the blue veins burning brighter, resonating with something unseen.
The air thickened. A faint hum filled the room — low, mournful, like a choir trapped beneath the floorboards.
Then the Cartel man staggered back, clutching his head. "What— what is that sound?"
Kaelen froze. He could hear them — not their words, but the echo beneath. Their fear, their anger, their greed. It poured into him in fractured whispers.
—don't let him see you're afraid——too much flux, pull back——this boy… what is he?—
He gasped and stumbled, the voices flooding his mind until everything blurred. The world tilted — then snapped back as quickly as it came.
When he blinked, the Cartel men were retreating.
The leader glared, regaining his composure. "This isn't over, boy. You've no idea what you've touched."
They vanished into the fog, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and fear.
Kaelen shut the door, trembling. His mother reached for him. "Kael— what happened to your arm?"
He pulled away. "I don't know."
The mark pulsed again, faster now — as if reacting to her voice, her fear.
"Kael?"
Her hand touched his cheek, and suddenly the room fell away.
He saw flashes — her memories, her fears — the nights spent counting coins, the prayers whispered over his sleeping form, the quiet ache of watching her husband fade into silence.
He heard her heartbeat, loud as thunder. Her guilt. Her love.
Then it was gone.
Kaelen stumbled back, gasping. His mother's eyes widened. "Kael, what's wrong?"
He couldn't answer. Words failed him.
He pressed a hand to his arm, to the mark that now burned like frostfire beneath his skin. The world was louder now — every thought, every emotion bleeding into him through invisible threads.
Outside, the wind howled through the alleys, carrying the faint shimmer of the Aurora above.
He looked toward the window.
And for a heartbeat — just one — he thought he saw her again.
The woman in gray, watching from across the street, hood drawn low.
Her voice echoed softly in his mind.
"You've touched the wound of the world, Kaelen. Now it remembers you."
He sank to his knees, trembling as the whispers surged again — countless voices overlapping in grief and wonder, filling his head with the echoes of a thousand forgotten souls.
And amid the storm, one voice rose clearer than the rest — Elara's, distant but unmistakable:
"Do not fear the echo. Fear the silence that follows."
The mark blazed once, bright as lightning.
Then the room went dark.