Night in the wilds didn’t feel like Graythorn’s nights.

  The dark here was heavier. The trees grew closer together, their branches knitting over the sky like fingers. The usual sounds—a stream gurgling somewhere out of sight, insects, the distant hoot of an owl—felt like a thin layer stretched over something deeper and very awake.

  Joren sat in the lee of a half-collapsed stone arch, a small fire burning low at his feet. The ruins around him were old, half-eaten by moss and vines, carved once by hands that had belonged to people who never knew Graythorn existed.

  It felt like a good place to be no one.

  He rubbed his hands over the fire, trying to chase away the chill. His palms still bore faint silver-blue veins if he looked closely enough, but they stayed dim for now.

  The Echoes had been quiet since noon.

  He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or lonely.

  He tossed another stick on the fire. Sparks leapt up and vanished.

  You’re going to freeze if you keep pretending that’s a proper fire, Bran observed mildly.

  Joren didn’t even flinch this time. “I’m feeding it,” he muttered.

  A little, Lira said. Like you’re apologizing to it.

  “Sorry I didn’t bring a whole forest,” Joren murmured.

  Sera’s presence pressed close, gentle. You haven’t eaten, she reminded him.

  Tyren sighed. Yeah, yeah—food. Or you’re going to drop in the middle of training and we’ll never hear the end of it.

  Joren dug a strip of dried meat out of his pack and held it over the fire. “Bossy for people who are supposed to be dead.”

  We upgraded, Tyren said. Now we’re nagging ghosts.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Despite everything, Joren’s lips twitched.

  He leaned back against the cool stone behind him, listening to the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of leaves.

  “I’m trying,” he said quietly. “To be strong. To carry you. To not break.” He stared into the flames. “I don’t know if I can do all of it.”

  The Echoes didn’t answer.

  The silence stretched.

  The flames dipped low.

  The hairs on Joren’s arms rose.

  Something in the air shifted.

  The forest’s noises thinned, like sound itself was stepping back. Even the crackling fire seemed to quiet, coals glowing dull red instead of orange.

  Bran’s presence sharpened. Joren.

  Lira’s tone was suddenly knife-edge. We didn’t call that.

  Sera’s warmth flinched, fear rippling through her echo. That’s not us.

  Tyren’s energy spiked. Get up. Now.

  Joren grabbed his sword and surged to his feet, heart pounding.

  The space in front of him bent.

  That was the only way to describe it.

  The air curved, like someone had drawn a line through the world and tugged. A thin vertical slit of pale light appeared, bright as moonlight caught on a blade, hanging in midair.

  It drifted toward him.

  It wasn’t a soul. Souls felt warm, familiar, shaped by who they had been.

  This felt cold. Vast. Impersonal. Old in a way that had nothing to do with years.

  The Echoes recoiled, pulling back deep toward his core, as if making room.

  The line of light hovered an arm’s length away.

  Then a voice—not sound, not Aether, something in between—spoke into the deepest part of him.

  “Awaken.”

  The word didn’t echo.

  It reverberated.

  Light exploded through his veins, silver-blue streaking under his skin. His lungs seized. His vision flared and then dimmed to outlines and shapes. His knees buckled and he dropped, one hand clawing at his chest.

  The Echoes cried out inside him, their reactions overlapping:

  Joren! Bran’s steady urgency.

  Get it out—what is that— Lira’s panic, raw.

  I can feel it touching your soul, Sera whispered, horrified.

  We didn’t invite that in! Tyren snapped.

  The line of light sank into him.

  Not physically. It was like someone had pressed a symbol onto his existence and left it there.

  The burning faded.

  The cold remained.

  Slowly, the fire regained its normal color. The night sounds crept back in, one by one.

  Joren knelt in the dirt, gasping.

  “…What…” he rasped, “…was that?”

  The Echoes stayed quiet for several heartbeats.

  Bran spoke first, his usual calm shaken. That was not meant for humans.

  Or demons, Lira added tightly. Or anything I know.

  Sera’s presence trembled. Joren… something else is in there now.

  Tyren’s tone, for once, held no joke. I really, really don’t like that.

  Joren pressed the heel of his palm against his sternum, as if he could feel some new weight there.

  “Awaken what?” he whispered.

  The night had no answer.

  But somewhere far away, beyond forest and hill and village, something ancient and broken stirred.

  It had found a piece of itself.

  And it had spoken.