The forest was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers.
The gnarled, twisted trees seemed to close ranks around me, as if eager to trap me in their embrace.
My bare feet, cut by rocks and roots, left a trail of blood that gleamed under the moonlight.
It didn't matter.
I couldn't stop.
Not after what I'd done.
Not after what I'd seen.
Lirien was dead.
The village—my supposed home—had spat me out like poison.
And in my mind, that voice—the Threshold—kept speaking, mocking, promising.
"The world fears you, Echo. But fear is power. Use it."
I gripped the broken amulet in my hand.
Its sharp edges cut into my skin.
It was all I had left of her.
The woman who had called me her son... though I barely knew her.
The runes carved into the black stone pulsed like they were alive, but I had no time to decipher them.
Not when the echo of the village's screams still rang in my ears.
I was five years old—or at least this body was.
But my mind was Kael's.
The strategist who had orchestrated wars.
Survived betrayals.
Calculated every move.
And died stabbed by someone he trusted.
That mistake wouldn't happen again.
I would never trust again.
Never be weak again.
The forest opened into a clearing.
I stopped, panting.
The air was cold, but my body burned, as if the Éther still coursed through my veins, seeking an outlet.
I closed my eyes to steady my breath.
And then—
A flash.
Shadows swirled, forming something... a throne?
Carved from black stone.
Shrouded in mist.
Voices whispered.
Fragments of words I couldn't grasp.
And the Threshold laughed, distant like an echo:
"You will be…"
I shuddered.
Then—snap.
A crack in the woods.
I spun, crouching, reaching for a weapon I didn't have.
Shadows moved among the trees—swift, silent.
Not animals.
Men.
Six figures emerged.
Cloaked in black.
Faces hidden.
But the glint of daggers was unmistakable.
Mercenaries.
"What have we here?" said a gravelly voice.
The man at the front pulled back his hood.
Scarred face.
Sickly yellow eyes.
An obsidian locket around his neck.
"No words?" he smirked.
"I'm Dren, of the Ashen Crows. And you, little one, are a problem. No one survives alone in this forest unless they're more than they seem."
"What do you want?" I asked.
My voice was steadier than I expected.
There was no room for fear.
Fear was for those without a plan.
Dren laughed, dry and sharp.
"Nobody kills a Fire Kingdom emissary," he said.
"The Éther is a plague. A stain that corrupts. But you... you carry it, don't you? Tell me, heretic—what does it feel like to be the world's ruin?"
My heart skipped.
How did he know?
No time to think.
One of the mercenaries lunged.
Scar on his cheek.
Dagger in hand.
The Éther awoke.
The world slowed.
My vision blurred.
A deafening hum.
I dodged.
The dagger missed by inches.
I dropped to my knees.
A scream trapped in my throat.
Blood dripped from my nose.
The black line on my arm spread like infection.
I forgot my name.
Arion? Kael?
"Enough!" Dren barked.
The mercenary froze.
"Take him. Alive."
I fought.
They were too many.
They bound my hands with ropes that smelled of dried blood and dragged me to a hidden camp deep in a ravine.
A fire crackled in the center.
A dozen figures stared at me—hard men and women, some barely teenagers.
And among them...
A girl.
Ten, maybe.
Jagged black hair.
Eyes sharp as blades.
She stepped forward.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Looks like a lost pup, but smells like trouble."
"Nyra," Dren said.
"Deal with him. If he's useless, toss him in the river."
She studied me, twirling a small knife.
"Speak, pup. Name?"
"Arion."
Flat voice.
No emotion.
She smirked.
"Arion, huh? Well, you're nobody here until you prove otherwise. And if you're a heretic..."
Her knife grazed my throat.
"I'll cut you myself."
---
Training with the Ashen Crows was brutal.
They taught me to move silently.
To wield a dagger.
To read terrain like a map.
But I wasn't a child learning for the first time.
Every motion was memory.
Every reflex forged in battle long ago.
What they saw as talent...
I knew was experience.
Nyra watched me.
Always.
During a sparring match, she cornered me.
Blade to my chest.
"You're strange," she whispered.
"No one your age fights like that. What are you hiding, Arion?"
"Nothing you'd care about," I replied, brushing her dagger aside with a move I'd perfected in another life.
She frowned.
Didn't press.
Not yet.
---
That night, Dren summoned me to his tent.
The air reeked of iron and leather.
"We have a mission," he said.
"An enemy camp. An elemental artifact. You're coming."
"Why me?"
But I already knew.
He was testing me.
"Because I see the Éther in your eyes, little one," Dren said, leaning closer.
"That power will devour you. Join me, and I'll teach you control. Defy me, and I'll rip your heart out first."
---
The enemy camp was a viper's nest.
Water Kingdom soldiers.
Enchanted spears.
Blue rune wards.
Nyra and I slipped through the dark.
The artifact glowed like a beating heart—watery, luminous.
But the alarm rang.
"Run!" Nyra shouted.
She knocked down two guards with a burst of wind.
But the mage came.
A wave of water crashed into us.
I sank.
Nyra was bound in liquid ropes.
Panic.
Real, ugly panic.
"Use me," the Threshold whispered.
"Save her, and you'll be stronger."
I didn't want to.
I knew the cost.
But Nyra—
I couldn't lose her too.
I let go.
The Éther surged.
The water froze.
My body screamed.
Blood burst from my eyes.
Boom.
A purple explosion tore the camp apart.
The mage disintegrated into ash.
Nyra gasped for air.
Freed.
I collapsed.
My arm blackened with lines that pulsed like veins.
And for a moment—
I saw Lirien's face.
Charred.
Begging.
"Run."
The Threshold laughed again.
And I saw a vision:
An obsidian throne.
Dripping blood.
Runes like living eyes.
Nyra lay among the corpses.
Eyes empty.
Knife broken.
"She is the price, Echo," the voice whispered.
"Choose, or I will."