The forest goes eerily silent.
I stop mid-step, my hand instinctively reaching for the blade at my hip. Thorne freezes beside me, his weathered face tightening as he scans the dense trees surrounding us. The usual symphony of Blackbriar Woods—chirping birds, buzzing insects, rustling leaves—has vanished, leaving only an unnatural hush that presses against my ears like a physical weight.
"Something's wrong," Thorne whispers, his voice barely audible. "The forest never goes quiet like this."
I nod, feeling a chill crawl up my spine despite the afternoon warmth. That's when I hear them—whispers. Faint at first, like leaves scraping against stone, then clearer, words taking shape within my mind.
Come home, Aria. We've been waiting.
I flinch. The voice is my own, yet somehow hollow, an echo from a cave that shouldn't exist.
"Do you hear that?" I ask, turning to Thorne.
Before he can answer, the air between us shimmers, and for the first time since I awakened with it bound to my consciousness, the System speaks aloud. The voice is neither male nor female, neither young nor old—a sound that seems to originate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Echoes of the untethered seek to claim the unshaped. Do not listen."
Thorne stumbles backward, eyes wide. "What in the seven hells was that?"
I have no time to explain. The whispers multiply, a cacophony of familiar voices—my father's deep timbre, my childhood tutor's stern tone, and most disturbingly, versions of myself I don't recognize. Older, colder, powerful.
"Come back to us, Daughter of the Accord. The throne awaits only you."
A prickle of awareness crawls over my skin. Something is shifting. The mist between the ancient trees thickens, congealing into a formless mass that slithers toward us with unnatural purpose. Within its churning depths, I glimpse faces forming and dissolving—some I recognize, others strange and distorted. Limbs of vapor reach out, grasping at the air.
Thorne curses under his breath and shoves me backward, breaking my line of sight. "Hollow Howler," he hisses, drawing his blade. "Don't look directly at it. It feeds on memory and warps perception."
But I already have.
Within the creature's shifting form, I see myself seated on a throne of twisted metal and glass, my father standing proudly at my side. The Arcane Accord banner flies above us, not as the symbol of oppression it has become, but as a beacon of order and protection. Is this the future? Or the past rewritten?
I feel the moment the Howler's hold tightens. My thoughts blur at the edges, my sense of self slipping into something else. Something easier. The vision shifts—now I'm no longer hunted, no longer feared. I am worshipped. Respected. The power coursing through my veins is a gift, not a curse.
"This isn't real," I whisper, but doubt threads through my words.
The mist-creature surges forward, enveloping me. The vapor stings my skin like a thousand needle pricks, each carrying an icy venom that seeps straight to my bones. My breath crystallizes before me despite the forest's warmth. Voices scream and whisper simultaneously in my head, memories twist and reform.
Thorne's voice snaps like a whip through the haze.
"ARIA! MOVE!"
But I don't. I can't. My limbs grow heavy, my vision narrows. The Howler's hold deepens, and the throne beneath me feels solid now, the weight of a crown pressing against my skull.
Then I feel it—a sharp tug, not on my body but on my mind.
A foreign presence cutting through the illusion. Thorne has reached into my thoughts using my own Arcane Whisper ability, a technique I taught him during our months of travel. The intrusion is jarring, painful, but it shatters the Howler's grip like breaking glass.
"Focus on my voice," his thoughts echo within mine.
This creature twists what you most desire and fear. It's not real.
With a gasp, I push back against the visions. The mist creature recoils as if struck, its form distorting, rippling with displeasure. I draw on my power, feeling the familiar burn of energy flowing through my veins, and project a wave of force that scatters the entity's vaporous form.
The Hollow Howler shrinks back, its mist thinning until it's indistinguishable from the natural fog rolling through the trees. But as it vanishes, its whisper lingers:
We will meet again, Daughter of the Accord. The past is not fixed.
As the last tendrils of mist dissipate, the System's voice resonates once more:
"The past is not a fixed thread. Beware those who weave anew."
I sink to my knees, trembling with exhaustion. "What does that mean?" I ask, not expecting an answer.
Thorne kneels beside me, concern etched into his face. "I don't know. But I think something—or someone—is trying to rewrite history. And they want you as part of that new tapestry."
The birds begin to sing again, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. The forest returns to life around us, but the warning echoes in my mind.
The birds begin to sing again, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. The forest returns to life around us, but the warning echoes in my mind.
The past is not a fixed thread.
What history is being unraveled? And why do I stand at its center?
We move in silence, our thoughts as tangled as the undergrowth beneath our feet. The Hollow Howler's attack has left something in its wake—not just fear, but doubt. I still feel the phantom weight of the crown that wasn't real, the warmth of a father's pride that never was.
Then, voices.
Thorne halts, holding up a hand in warning. I immediately lower my stance, slipping into a crouch behind a fallen log. Through the dense foliage, lamplight flickers in the dimming afternoon, illuminating a small caravan camp just ahead where the forest path widens slightly.
Two covered wagons sit at the center, flanked by beasts unlike any I've seen before—reptilian creatures, the size of oxen, their ridged backs covered in thick, plated scales.
"Pack Drakes," Thorne mutters, "Expensive, reliable, and only used by those who can afford to protect them."
"Travelers," he continues. "Heading to Ravenswatch, I'd bet. Seems like everyone is these days."
I study the five figures moving about the camp, their movements efficient but cautious. Experienced travelers, not common merchants.
"Should we avoid them?"
Thorne exhales, eyes scanning for any sign of hidden reinforcements. "Normally, yes. But after that Howler attack… numbers might be safer tonight." A pause. "And we're running low on supplies."
Before we can decide, one of the figures—a tall man with a beard streaked with gray—looks directly at our hiding place.
"You can come out," he calls. "We've been aware of you for the past minute."
Thorne curses under his breath. So much for stealth. I rise slowly, keeping my hands visible but ready to summon my power if needed. Thorne follows, posture loose, but I know his hand is never far from his blade.
The travelers' postures shift subtly, their bodies tensing like coiled springs. One of the guards, a burly man with a scar cutting across his cheek, grips the hilt of his sword, his fingers tapping against the leather-wrapped handle in a slow, measured rhythm. Beside him, his companion—a wiry man with sharp, darting eyes—flicks a glance between Thorne and me, his hand hovering near the crossbow strapped to his back.
A bearded man steps forward, his long coat marking him as a scholar rather than a warrior. He carries himself like a man used to being listened to—but not necessarily obeyed.
"I am Cassian," he introduces himself with a slight bow. "Scholar of the Eastern Archives, traveling to Ravenswatch on matters of research."
Thorne doesn't return the bow. "Thorne." A simple nod. "This is Aria. We're heading the same way."
A woman steps forward next—similar to Cassian in features, but with sharper cheekbones and an intensity that makes my skin prickle. She watches me too closely. Assessing.
"I am Miren, healer and sister to Cassian," she says. Her gaze lingers on me. "You look exhausted, girl. And… something else."
The two guards nod curtly but offer no names.
Then, from behind the wagons, a small figure darts into view—a boy, no older than ten, with wild dark hair and unnervingly serious eyes.
"Did you see it too?" the boy asks me directly, ignoring the adults' introductions. "The thing in the trees? It doesn't have eyes, but I feel it watching."
A chill slithers down my spine and I exchange a quick glance with Thorne. Could the boy have seen the Hollow Howler?
Thorne stiffens. "What did you see, kid?"
The boy, Elio, shrugs, but his hands tighten into small fists. "It doesn't have eyes. But I feel it watching." Cassian sighs. "Pay Elio no mind. He's been claiming to see things since we entered these woods."
But I don't dismiss him so easily.
Cassian gestures toward the fire. "You're welcome to share our fire and food for the night. These woods grow dangerous after dark."
I exchange a quick glance with Thorne. It's an invitation. But is it a trap?
Thorne hesitates, his shoulders rigid—but after a moment, he nods. Strength in numbers.
As we settle around the fire, I feel Miren's eyes still on me, like she's peeling back layers of skin with her gaze.
Cassian passes us bowls of thick stew, the aroma rich with herbs and slow-cooked meat.
"Where are you from?" he asks casually.
"West," Thorne answers before I can, voice intentionally vague. "Traveling east for work."
Cassian nods, accepting the simplification. Or pretends to.
"These are strange times to be traveling," he muses. "The Arcane Accord has patrols everywhere. Looking for something—or someone."
I keep my expression neutral, but my grip tightens around the wooden bowl.
Cassian doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does.
"My research concerns ancient magic," he continues, warming to the subject. "Particularly the lost records of Arcanists—those who could manipulate the fundamental forces without the usual constraints."
"Fairy tales," one of the guards grunts, speaking for the first time.
"Not at all," Cassian replies earnestly. "The historical record is quite clear. There was once an order of such individuals, though they vanished centuries ago. Or were eliminated." He glances meaningfully at me. "The Accord has always feared what it cannot control."
Cassian's gaze lingers on me, his expression shifting from polite curiosity to something sharper—something knowing. His eyes sweep over my cloak, the cut of my tunic, the subtle embroidery along the seams.
"That style…" he murmurs, almost to himself. "It's reminiscent of descriptions I've read—accounts of what Arcanists were said to wear." He tilts his head, studying me as if I'm a puzzle whose pieces don't quite fit. "Not identical, of course, but the influence is undeniable."
A cold prickle runs down my spine. What are the odds? In a world where the Accord has erased nearly all trace of Arcanists, we just happen to stumble upon a historian who has studied them? Dumb luck, or something more?
Thorne shifts beside me, his posture going rigid. I don't have to look at him to know he's thinking the same thing I am—this is too much of a coincidence. His fingers drum against his knee in a slow, deliberate pattern, a silent signal we've developed over our short time together. Be careful.
I force my grip on the bowl to loosen, hoping Cassian doesn't notice the tension in my shoulders. "Just a coincidence," I say, keeping my voice level. "I wear what's practical for travel."
Cassian doesn't look convinced. If anything, his intrigue deepens, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup as if cataloging every detail. "Coincidence…" he echoes, but there's a note of doubt in his tone. "Perhaps."
Silence.
A flicker of something—recognition?—passes between him and Miren.
I reach for my waterskin, keeping my movements steady. As I do, I notice one of the guards shifting subtly, his hand sliding closer to his weapon.
Another glance passes between them.
Do they suspect something?
Cassian asks about our journey thus far, and when I speak of the western roads, he and Miren exchange another quick glance—something knowing in their eyes, as though my accent or choice of words confirms a suspicion.
The conversation shifts to safer topics as we eat, but I notice Miren continuing to observe me. Finally, as we finish our meal, the healer approaches me directly.
"Give me your hand."
Not a request.
I hesitate, but extend it.
Miren takes my hand between her own, her fingers unnaturally cool. She closes her eyes, inhaling sharply as though tasting the air.
Then, softly—so only I can hear:
"You don't just carry magic, girl." A pause. "You're threaded with something… unstable. Something not of this world."
A pulse of cold spreads through my palm. I yank my hand back..
"I don't know what you mean."
Miren's gaze sharpens. But then she exhales, as if deciding something. "Your secret is your own to keep." A glance toward the darkening trees. "For now."
Across the camp, I notice the two guards huddled in conversation, occasionally looking my way. Have they heard rumors? Do they know the Accord is hunting someone matching my description?
As night falls completely, Elio, the boy, sidles up beside me.
"It's still out there," he whispers. "Watching us. Watching you."
"What do you see, exactly?" I ask him.
"Nothing, really. Just… shadows that move wrong. And sometimes, when it's very quiet, I hear my name. But it's not really my name, because it's not how anyone here says it."
I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the night air. The Hollow Howler is still stalking us.
That night, as the others sleep, I dream. In my dream, I stand in a vast library, shelves stretching endlessly in all directions. Books fly from their places, pages tearing free and swirling around me like autumn leaves. And from within the paper storm, the Hollow Howler's form takes shape.
But this time, it doesn't try to deceive me with visions. Instead, it whispers a single name:
"Etherion."
I jolt awake, the name burning in my mind like a brand.
Etherion.
And then—I realize someone is standing beside me.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize it's Elio. His small hand finds mine, ice-cold with fear. But he isn't looking at me. His gaze is fixed on something beyond me, at the edge of camp.
I turn, slowly, to follow his gaze.
The moment my eyes search the darkness, the flames shrink to dying embers, casting the world in shades of deep crimson.
And there, standing at the edge of camp—not mist, not illusion, but something real—
A figure watches.
"It moved," Elio whispers, the words barely a breath against my ear. His small hand squeezes mine.
The System stir within my consciousness, suddenly an alert:
"Echo of an Arcanist detected nearby," the System's voice resonates within my mind, urgent and clear. "Ancient pattern. Unstable."
The shadow takes a single step forward—
And everything changes.