The road east of Vaelbridge wasn't really a road.
It was a memory—a thread of half-buried flagstones and wind-flattened markers carved in a dialect no one in Isenhold ever bothered to teach. It wound between the ribs of long-dead beasts and the skeletal ruins of old watchtowers. Each mile whispered with dust, carrying the scent of iron and the crackling hush of magic left too long unused.
Evelyn walked first.
Not because she wanted to—because she had to. Since the shard awakened again, her senses had stretched. The world felt louder. Edges sharper. The heartbeat of the land—the slow thrum of echo-winds and shifting presence—pressed into her thoughts like ink soaking paper.
Torren followed, slower than usual.
He tried to hide the limp, but she noticed. He wasn't complaining, but she could see the swelling under the makeshift wrap near his thigh. The lesser beast's claws hadn't gone deep, but deep enough.
"We'll stop at the bridge," she said, half-turning. "You're walking like a cart with a broken wheel."
"I'm fine." He adjusted his pack with a wince. "You're just feeling guilty because I saved you."
Evelyn arched a brow. "I dragged you out of a burning tavern and killed a beast with my spine half-broken."
"You used magic. I used a frying pan."
She let a smile twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Very heroic."
Behind them, Vareth trailed at a calm distance, a shapeless cloak drawn tight against the rising grit. He didn't speak much—not unless questioned—but he hummed now and then. The same low tune Evelyn had heard in her visions.
She'd asked once. He'd only said: It's the song of ashfall. You'll know the words eventually.
The bridge came into view just past dusk.
Or what passed for dusk out here—an endless dimming where the sun melted behind crimson haze, and the horizon bled rust. The bridge itself was ancient stone, etched with the sigil of the Border Guild in six worn circles.
As they approached, Evelyn slowed.
Her skin prickled. Not from the cold—but from pressure. Magic again, but… thin. Faint. Like a thread stretched too far, unraveling.
She reached out, brushing her fingers across the stone rail.
It hummed. Just slightly.
Vareth stopped beside her. "Old threshold ward."
Torren leaned heavily on his staff. "What's that?"
"Long-distance protections. Anchored into the land. This one hasn't been renewed in decades."
"Can we cross?"
Vareth touched the stone, nodded. "Yes. But something's disturbed it."
Evelyn stepped forward—and the wind stilled.
A breath.
Then a whisper: You are not alone.
She froze.
"Did you hear that?"
Torren looked at her, confused. "Hear what?"
Vareth narrowed his eyes. "You heard inside, didn't you?"
Evelyn nodded slowly.
"She's attuned now," Vareth muttered. "The shard's feeding her warnings."
"Warnings about what?" Torren asked.
Vareth didn't answer.
They crossed together, and the hum of the bridge grew softer. Evelyn glanced behind them. Shadows moved—not fast, not near, but moving. Shapeless forms along the horizon, shifting like smoke that wanted to become solid.
"What were these bridges for?" she asked, voice hushed.
"Warden posts," Vareth replied. "Outposts, checkpoints. Border Guild once held these lands properly. Long before your village's birth songs were written."
"Then what happened?"
He smiled, without warmth. "You did."
Evelyn stopped. "Me?"
"Not you personally. Your kind. Those who bear flame. Coreborn, ember-split, shard-scars—names vary. Magic broke the order. They feared you would return."
"And now I have," she said softly.
"You and worse," Vareth added.
A pause. Then Torren asked the question they both felt coming.
"What is the worst?"
Vareth turned his eyes to the sky—where clouds didn't move, and something shimmered just out of sight, like heat warping the veil between worlds.
"The ones who Echo."
They camped beneath the arch of a ruined watchtower just beyond the bridge. Stones crumbled inward, but some shelter remained. Evelyn built the fire herself, careful not to use sparkwood—her flame was enough. It danced golden-orange, the only warmth in a land that no longer remembered how to burn.
That night, Evelyn dreamed again.
But this time, she didn't see the silver-eyed woman.
This time she stood at the center of a sunken hall. All around her: mirrors. In each, a different version of herself—taller, broken, burning, smiling, screaming.
And in one—just one—she saw a girl with no eyes and a crown of thorns, whispering to the void between worlds.
"You walk toward the Hollow," the girl said. "And the Hollow watches back."
Evelyn woke cold. Her ember flickered dim.
She didn't sleep again.