“Echoes of the Mind” by Atlus Moon Introduction: “To those of you who have forgotten: this book will give you a key to access those memories. But be wary—your mind hides things when they are too painful or dangerous. Working with the mind is a delicate and nuanced discipline. Continue with care.” River took a deep breath. The candlelight flickered across the page. His knuckles whitened on the book. He only hesitated a heartbeat—he didn’t just want answers. He needed them. His heartbeat slowed as he read. The subject consumed him—his focus sharpening as the world around him faded. The first few pages weren’t magical at all. They read more like a biology lesson, describing how short-term memories are stored in the prefrontal cortex, while long-term ones are rooted deep in the hippocampus. Damage to these parts of the brain could cause amnesia-like symptoms, the book warned. Such memories were far harder—sometimes impossible—to recover. Repressed memories, however—those lost due to trauma or, more rarely, by magic—could be retrieved more easily… if one dared. River absently ran a hand through his hair, thinking. Even before his awakening, he didn’t remember any injuries—no dents or fractures. But still… he truly didn’t know what had been done to him. He kept reading. The next section detailed cautionary tales—mages who had delved too deeply into lost memories and paid the price. The potential side effects were listed in neat, uncaring ink: further brain damage, blindness or death River grimaced. Sweat gathered on his skin, and he swallowed hard. The once-cool room now felt like a furnace—stifling, oppressive. He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of the pounding in his chest. “Well, shit,” he muttered. He flipped to the next page—and immediately frowned. The text there was a tangled, incoherent mess, scrawled as if by a madman. It was unreadable. Frustrated by his lack of progress, River reached inward, summoning Emery’s presence from within the void-bag. When he opened the book again, the floating head emerged. It should’ve been strange—terrifying, even. But now, it felt almost normal. A few months ago, this would’ve been unthinkable.

  So he spoke softly. “Can you read this?” Emery’s voice responded, groggy and faintly annoyed at being disturbed. “What have you gotten yourself into now…” There was a pause — then a dry chuckle. “This is difficult magic. Dangerous, even. You’re either reckless… or cursed with extraordinary luck.” A ghost of a laugh slipped from the spectral mouth. River frowned. But he let it go. “You can’t read this with your eyes,” Emery said. “You have to let the essence tell you what’s written. It’s an old technique—crafted by mages to keep ordinary people out of things they weren’t meant to see.” River exhaled slowly and closed the book. He turned his focus inward, the way he did when reaching out to sense the world around him. But this time, he focused on the page—letting his consciousness seep into the weave of essence that clung to it like silk-woven clothes to skin. It was just another conduit, like in his light training. Alerus had always pushed him to reach deeper. Then— “click”. River could feel the essence lock into place, turning like a key and unveiling the hidden layer beneath the ink.

  When he opened his eyes, the page no longer looked chaotic. It glowed faintly now—the words sharper, clearer, as if dawn were breaking across the page. In the center of the page, a faint handprint shimmered, surrounded by spiraling, intricate script. And somehow, without reading a word, River understood.

  “To those who wish to unlock what was forgotten: place your hand upon the seal and channel light magic into the construct. All that was lost will be revealed.” The words thrummed in his mind. This wasn’t just a book—it was an artifact. The visible runes along the spine weren’t decorative; they were conduits, designed to channel the spell’s magic. The choice settled across his chest, heavy and unshakable. His hands trembled as he reached out, placing his palm against the glowing page. The pull of essence surged the moment his skin met the parchment. It was hot, responsive. Almost alive. Calm down, he told himself. He needed a clear mind to channel the magic properly—but his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. The more essence he channeled, the more tangled his mind became. It was like trying to thread a needle in the middle of a whirlwind. And then—as he fed light essence into the construct—the world shifted. The room. The inn. The faint sound of his friends breathing nearby—all of it dissolved.

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  He was… younger. Much younger. Or maybe the world had simply grown impossibly large around him. He toddled beside a woman, his tiny hand wrapped around her finger. Something about her stirred the edges of memory—her scent, the way she moved, the pressure of her touch. Each detail tugged at memories just out of reach, like warmth fading before it could touch his mind.

  Before he could focus, the world twisted again. Everything shifted—changed. He was even smaller now. An infant, cradled in her arms. He couldn’t lift his head. His limbs felt foreign and useless. His mouth was soft and helpless.

  But now… he could see her face. Clearly. It was the same woman as before. And with every flicker of recognition, another thread of memory stirred. Golden-blonde hair curled around her face, framing features that were striking—beautiful, but worn. A long, thin scar crossed one cheek. Her green eyes were tired, heavy with sadness—the eyes of someone who had fought too long… and lost too much. And reflected in those eyes—his own. His irises shimmered with the unmistakable glow of awakened essence.

  How could that be? He thought, stunned. Before he could think further, his surroundings shifted once again. He knew this place. The narrow, filthy alleys of Norvil. The only home he could remember. He crouched behind a pile of garbage, the stench of the city sending a shiver down his spine. His body was tense, heart hammering in his chest. In the dim light, he watched the woman—his mother—stand facing four figures, cloaked in shadows that writhed and twisted. The same vile darkness Philip had wielded. The creatures that had killed Lud. He could only make out a few words before the shadows closed in. “Give us the child,” one hissed. “He must die. Both of your sins must be atoned.” River’s heart clenched. They were talking about me. Before they could move further, his mother acted. With a stomp of her foot, the ground beneath the attackers turned to mud—a sinkhole pulling them downward. Two of them sank instantly, thrashing. She drew a sword—a gleaming arc of steel, unlike anything River had ever seen. She struck at the nearest attacker with blinding speed. The blade glanced off uselessly, bouncing away. A mocking laugh echoed from the shadows. But she was fast. Before they could retaliate, she thrust a hand skyward—lightning split the heavens and came crashing down. One of the shadowed figures collapsed, twitching, smoke curling from his body. But the others were already moving. Her movements slowed. Exhaustion creeping into her limbs, the price of burning too much essence too quickly. One attacker lunged. She sidestepped, planted a foot against his chest, and shoved him back.

  Another swung. She twisted aside, driving an elbow into his jaw. Brutal. Efficient. She turned to meet the last—but missed the movement behind her. The first attacker—the one she had struck with lightning—had risen again. A wicked dagger gleamed in his hand, catching the light.

  River tried to scream—but nothing left his throat.

  The blade plunged into her back. And in a heartbeat it was over. A scream tore from her throat—raw, inhuman—as the sky rumbled in fury. Lightning lashed down around them. The earth split open beneath her, swallowing her, as if to shield her.

  Tears streamed down River’s face. He couldn’t remember her. But some part of him knew. Knew it was his mother. Knew it was love. As the attackers turned—faces hidden in shadows—River screamed. But there was nothing he could do. He turned and ran. He kept running. Too afraid to look back. His final memories flashed—raw with fear and grief—as the world fell away around him once more. And then… he was back. Sitting at the desk. In the tiny rented room. The dim candle guttering. His friends snoring in the bed behind him. His tears hit the pages in silence, soaking through the pages before he could stop them. His fingers shook as he pulled his hand away, breath ragged. His mother had been a mage. Powerful. Skilled. With at least two affinities. There had to be a record of her. Someone had to remember her. Maybe someone from the Great Houses knew who she was. Maybe… if he found her name, he could finally understand why they had come after him. But that hope curdled into fear. If they had hunted him as a helpless child… What would they do now that he had awakened? Would he meet the same fate as his mother?

  He had to be strong.

  Not just for himself, but for the ones who stood by him against Philip—it was his turn to protect them.