The path grew older as they walked—less a trail, more a memory of one. Roots claimed the dirt, and brambles snagged at Torren's sleeves. Trees leaned close, ancient and hushed, as if they too remembered the fire.
Evelyn moved with silent purpose now. Her feet felt lighter, more certain, and where Torren hesitated, she strode. The forest no longer resisted her.
It watched her.
They passed an old waystone half-swallowed by moss. The sigils on it had nearly faded, but Evelyn could still sense the shape of protection etched deep into the stone's marrow. She touched it.
And flinched.
A ripple passed through her palm, and suddenly she saw—a moment frozen in time. The waystone blazing bright, a Warden kneeling with blood streaming from his ribs, whispering the rite of anchoring. A voice saying, "Let the Hollow pass you by. Let the stars remain above."
Then the vision faded.
Torren's voice snapped her back. "You alright?"
She pulled her hand away, nodding.
"Something's ahead," she said.
He grimaced. "Something good, or something that wants to wear our skin?"
Evelyn didn't smile. "Something broken."
They reached the remains of the watchpost by late afternoon.
A ring of carved pines had once formed a defensive line. Now, half were splintered, the rest blackened with scorch marks. The sigils etched into their bark had been clawed out—deep grooves, too wide for any animal Evelyn knew.
Torren crouched beside an overturned crate.
"Still warm. Someone passed through here not more than a day ago."
He held up a broken pendant, its chain frayed and scorched.
Evelyn approached the central stone circle, the heart of the post. Its glyphs were intact—but humming.
Low. Uneven.
"I think this place is still warded," she said. "But something's wrong. The pattern is… off."
Torren looked around warily. "Then let's not linger."
But Evelyn was already moving toward the standing stone.
When she placed her hand on its face, she felt something snap into alignment—like tuning a stringed instrument and finding perfect pitch.
The forest shivered.
A shadow uncoiled from the underbrush to their right.
It had no eyes. Its limbs were too long. The torso was made of black hide, etched with faint marks—half glyph, half scar.
An Echoed.
But not like the one that destroyed Isenhold.
This one wore the face of a man.
Torren was already moving. Sword out, stance wide.
But Evelyn stepped forward.
"Wait," she said.
The creature paused.
It tilted its head—not like an animal. Like someone recognizing an old tune.
Evelyn could hear it. The hum from the stone wasn't just background now—it had changed pitch, harmonizing with something inside her.
And the Echoed responded.
It took a step forward.
Torren barked, "Get back, Evelyn!"
But she raised her hand, palm outward. A faint warmth surged down her arm.
And the Echoed stopped.
Then it screamed.
The sound tore at the trees, sent leaves falling in waves. It lashed out at the stone circle—and its claw passed harmlessly through the sigil boundary. Smoke bled from its arm.
It hissed—not in pain. In recognition.
Then fled into the forest.
Torren caught up, breath ragged. "What in the Hollow was that?"
"I don't know," Evelyn said, her voice low. "But it knew me."
That night, as they made camp inside the fractured watchpost, Evelyn dreamed.
The silver-eyed woman stood at the edge of the same burning field—no longer singing.
This time, she wept.
And behind her stood dozens more, their faces veiled in ash.