The rain fell in cold, uneven sheets, soaking the forest floor and masking the sound of footsteps—until one pair stopped.
Milo knelt by the body.
It was a man, cloaked in crimson and lying face-down in the mud. Blood mixed with rainwater in slow, winding rivers, trailing from a wound that had long since stopped bleeding.
But it wasn't the man that held Milo's attention.
It was the sword.
Half-buried beside the corpse, the blade shimmered faintly despite the overcast gloom. Elegant yet worn, it pulsed with something strange—like it remembered something. Or someone.
Milo reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the world spun sideways. A cold rush surged through his veins. Flashes of light. Screams. A battlefield. A name whispered in a voice not his own.
Kaelen.
Then silence.
Gasping, Milo stumbled back. The sword lay quiet once more—but the whisper lingered in his mind like smoke refusing to vanish.
He didn't know why he took it.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe fate.
Or maybe, deep down, he recognized it.
***
The town of Braelor didn't welcome strangers.
Milo stood at its gates with his hood pulled low, the strange blade wrapped and slung across his back. His clothes were torn, muddy, and blood-specked. He looked like a traveler—or a problem.
The guards stared long but said nothing.
Braelor was the kind of place people went to disappear, not to be found. It made sense that Milo ended up here. He couldn't even remember where he was from—just glimpses, flashes, pieces that didn't fit together.
A face. A fire. A scream.
He shook the memories off like water.
Inside the town, life crawled at its own pace. Markets buzzed in hushed tones. Lanterns flickered in daylight. And somewhere beneath the cobblestones, something watched.
He felt it.
Not paranoia. Not imagination.
Something was following him.
***
At the local tavern, Milo found shelter and little more. The innkeeper offered a bed, a meal, and one long, skeptical glance at the blade.
"Don't cause trouble," she muttered.
Milo didn't answer.
He couldn't.
That night, he dreamed of war. He saw fire raining from the sky. Towers crumbling. A younger version of himself, cloaked in armor and regret. Screaming a name he didn't recognize—until he woke with the taste of ash in his mouth.
The blade lay beside his bed, untouched—but its faint glow had returned.
And so had the whisper.
Kaelen.
***
In the days that followed, strange things began to happen.
The blade moved when it shouldn't. Doors opened behind him with no one there. Animals avoided him. People whispered after he passed.
And every night, the dreams grew darker.
He sought answers at the guildhall, where wandering mages, hunters, and relic seekers gathered. One elder—a man named Rion—noticed the sword immediately.
"Where did you find that?" he asked, voice low.
"In the forest. Beside a dead man," Milo answered.
Rion studied him for a long moment. Then he gestured for Milo to sit.
"That's not an ordinary weapon. It's Arcana-forged. Older than this land. And it's bonded to you now."
"Bonded?"
Rion nodded. "The moment you touched it, it chose you."
Milo looked down at his hand. "Why?"
"Maybe to protect you," Rion said. "Or maybe to remember."
***
That night, Milo returned to his room with more questions than answers. The sword lay quiet, but its weight had changed—heavier, somehow, like it carried not just steel, but history.
When he looked in the mirror, he didn't see just himself.
He saw someone else.
A shadow of a soldier. A stranger with his eyes. A name he had never chosen.
Kaelen Drake.
And behind that reflection... something darker. Watching. Waiting.
Milo blinked. The image was gone—but the chill in his bones remained.
He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes. The events of the day spun in his mind like a storm: the falling boy, the attack by the Nocturn, the chain-wrapped sword that somehow obeyed his hand.
The pendant around his neck—once dull and forgotten—now pulsed faintly, as if responding to some distant signal. He gripped it tight.
"Who am I really?" he whispered.
No answer came. Only silence.
***
He didn't sleep that night. When he finally closed his eyes, he found himself in a place that wasn't real—a dream, maybe, or something worse.
The ground was endless black stone. The sky bled with swirling colors. Shadows stood like statues all around him, unmoving, faceless.
And at the center of it all stood Kaelen.
Older. Armored. Wounded. With the same sword strapped to his back.
Milo stepped forward. "Are you… me?"
Kaelen didn't answer. He simply raised a hand—and suddenly, Milo was surrounded by whispers.
"Traitor."
"Monster."
"Youleftus."
"Youdon'tbelonghere."
Then, Kaelen spoke—not aloud, but inside Milo's mind.
"Youweren'tmeantto wake yet. But now that you have… you'll have to choose."
Milo tried to speak, but his throat burned.
Choose what?
Kaelen turned, and behind him a great gate appeared—formed of bone and iron, pulsing with dark energy. A symbol glowed above it: the same one etched faintly into Milo's pendant.
Suddenly, the dream collapsed into itself like shattered glass—and Milo woke up, drenched in sweat, gasping for air.
***
Morning came slow and grey.
The city was tense. Rumors of the Nocturn attack had spread like wildfire, though the guild had tried to contain it. Whispers of "the boy who fell" and "a weapon from the Veil" echoed through taverns and alleys.
Milo kept his head down as he made his way to the archives. He needed answers—not from soldiers or sages—but from old records, forgotten myths, anything that could explain why a stranger's face stared back at him from the mirror.
The guild's archive chamber was cold and dust-choked. He spent hours scouring faded scrolls, brittle tomes, and yellowed journals.
That's when he found it.
A record titled: "Echo-Bearers of the Forgotten Flame."
It described warriors chosen by a force older than magic. Not born, but reborn. Reincarnated through blood, memory, and unresolved guilt.
They were called Echoes—living fragments of people who had died before their time, souls tied to unfinished purpose.
One of them was named KaelenDrake.
An elite soldier. A swordsman bound to the mythical weapon Eidahl'sChain. Betrayed by his comrades. Killed before the final battle.
Echoesdo not remember who theywere, the record said.
But their powerneverforgets.
Milo sat back, heart hammering.
He wasn't dreaming those images. He was reliving them.
He was Kaelen. Or some broken piece of him, reborn in a world that had forgotten.
The sword, the voice, the pendant—they weren't coincidences.
They were calls.
Calls to finish what Kaelen couldn't.
But then, beneath the final page, someone had scribbled a warning in shaky ink:
"The Echo-Bearers are cursed. They wake with borrowed strength… but not alone. The shadows come with them."
Just as Milo was about to leave, the temperature in the room dropped. Books fluttered. Candles went out.
And from the far corner of the archive, something moved—just out of sight.
He froze, reaching instinctively for the sword.
A voice hissed from the dark, low and serpentine:
"Youcarry his guilt. You wear his name. But you are not him. Not yet."
Milo backed away, heart racing.
"What are you?"
"His sin," it whispered. "And soon, yours."
A black, tendril-like arm slithered across the floor toward him—but the pendant flared with light, burning it away in a flash.
The presence vanished.
Silence returned.
But Milo knew the truth now. The past hadn't just come back to him.
It had followed him.
And whatever Kaelen Drake had left undone… the cost was coming due.
Milo swallowed hard. Darkness was already here—inside and out.
His vision blurred as the last echoes of the presence faded. His hands shook, clutching the pendant like a lifeline. The room, once just a quiet refuge, now felt suffocating—as if the shadows themselves were waiting, watching.
He stumbled back to his bed and sank onto the edge, mind racing. His sin... and soon, yours. What did that mean? What sin could Kaelen Drake have committed that now threatened to drag Milo into darkness?
His fingers traced the pendant's surface, feeling its faint warmth, a stark contrast to the cold dread curling in his chest. The name Kaelen Drake wasn't just a ghost from a forgotten past—it was a warning. A curse. A call to action.
Milo's eyes drifted to the sword leaning against the wall. The steel gleamed faintly in the dim light, almost alive. He wondered if the sword, too, carried pieces of that sin—fragments of the battles, the blood, and the broken promises that had chained Kaelen's soul.
A soft knock broke through his spiraling thoughts.
"Milo? Are you okay?" Lena's voice was quiet, tentative, as if she was afraid he'd disappear.
He swallowed hard and nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yeah... I just need some time."
The door creaked open, and Lena stepped inside, concern etched deep in her eyes.