The mist clung to the earth like a shroud, silent and heavy. The boy moved forward without looking back, his footsteps deliberate, each one sinking deeper into the weight of what he had seen. The village of ash—their lives burned to silence—was no longer behind him. It was within him.
And the chains inside him knew.
They pulsed with a rhythm that felt alive, vibrating with purpose, feeding off the pain and anger that simmered beneath his skin. The faint golden veins on his hands seemed brighter now, flickering like embers that refused to fade.
"You're quiet," Sylra said, watching him from the corner of her eye. Her voice was cautious, but probing.
The boy's reply was flat, his tone edged with steel. "I'm thinking."
The master's voice broke the air like a hammer striking stone. "Good. You'll need more than anger to survive where we're going."
The boy's gaze narrowed. "And where is that?"
The master stopped at the edge of the ridge, where the mist began to thin. Below them stretched an abyss—a chasm so vast it seemed to stretch forever. Black as night, it swallowed all light, and from its depths came whispers. Hundreds of voices, rising and falling like the wind, too faint to make out but too loud to ignore.
"The Valley of Echoes," the master said, pointing downward.
The boy frowned. "What's there?"
Sylra's silver cloak caught the wind as she stepped beside him. "A graveyard of voices. It's where the heavens send their whispers to die."
The master turned to face the boy, his face carved with hard lines. "And it's where you will face the first trial."
---
The Descent
The path into the valley was steep, the rocks slick with unseen moisture. Each step took the boy further into shadow, and with it, the whispers grew louder. They started as murmurs, curling around him like smoke, dragging invisible claws across his mind.
"You are not enough."
"You are weak."
"Turn back."
He gritted his teeth and forced his feet to move. Each whisper was a knife, slipping between the cracks of his resolve, but he would not stop. He could not stop.
They're only voices, he told himself. They're nothing.
But then the whispers changed.
"You let them die."
The boy stopped, his breath freezing in his chest. The words were clearer now, sharper. They weren't whispers anymore—they were voices. Familiar voices.
"You let them die."
A shape began to emerge from the darkness. The boy's eyes widened as the figure stepped forward, its form flickering like smoke. It was small, frail—chains wrapped around its limbs like shackles.
It was him.
The shadow looked up, its golden eyes glowing with cruel light. Its voice was his own, twisted and mocking. "You couldn't save them. You won't save anyone."
The boy's grip tightened on his blade. "You're not real."
The shadow tilted its head, its smile widening. "Aren't I? I'm what's left of you—the part you try to bury. The part that knows you're not strong enough."
The chains inside the boy roared to life, their hum vibrating in his chest. Around him, golden chains erupted from the ground, coiling like serpents.
The shadow stepped forward, the chains answering its call. "You think you can break the heavens? You couldn't even protect them."
The boy staggered back as the whispers became screams, crashing over him like a wave. Images flashed before his eyes—faces he couldn't save, flames that he couldn't stop.
"Stop!" he shouted, but the voices only grew louder.
The shadow laughed, raising its hand. Chains shot forward, wrapping around the boy's arms and legs, dragging him to his knees.
"You are weak."
"You are nothing."
"You will fail."
The boy's vision swam, the weight of the chains pressing down on him like stone. For the first time, the hum inside him faltered, the golden glow dimming.
No.
The shadow loomed over him, its voice a whisper in his ear. "Give up. It's easier."
The boy's hand trembled, the rusted blade slipping from his grasp.
"Give up."
"NO!"
The roar tore from his throat, louder than the whispers, louder than the chains. The golden light inside him flared, burning through the darkness like fire. The chains shattered, exploding outward in a storm of light and dust.
The shadow staggered back, its form flickering. For the first time, its cruel smile faltered.
The boy rose to his feet, his eyes blazing gold. His voice was low, steady, and unyielding. "You are not me."
The shadow snarled, chains snapping toward him again.
The boy lifted his blade, the rusted metal glowing with golden fire. "And I will not let you win."
He moved.
The blade cut through the shadow's chest, its form breaking apart in a scream of fury and light. The chains crumbled, dissolving into golden dust that scattered on the wind.
The whispers fell silent.
The boy stood alone in the valley, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The chains within him thrummed softly, no longer mocking—just listening.
---
The Return
When the boy emerged from the valley, the first light of dawn was breaking across the horizon. Sylra was waiting, her silver gaze searching him carefully.
"You did it," she said softly.
The master stood a few steps away, his expression unreadable. "And?"
The boy met his gaze, his voice steady. "It's not over."
The master nodded once. "Good. Then you're learning."
The boy looked back at the valley, where the shadows still lingered far below. He could still feel them, but they no longer held power over him.
He turned back to the path ahead, the glow beneath his skin burning faintly.
"Let the heavens come," he said quietly. "I'm ready."
Somewhere, far above, thunder rumbled, as though the heavens themselves were answering his challenge.