Ash fell like snow.
Leon Vael stepped into the ruins of a small mountain village, its timbers blackened, its fields scorched to cinders. Not a sound greeted him—no birds, no wind. Only the crunch of his boots against the burned earth.
His eyes darted from one crumbled wall to another. Something about this place felt wrong—not just destroyed, but silenced. As if memory itself had been burned away.
Then—a flutter.
From the smoke-choked sky above, a parrot descended, its wings unsteady, blood speckled across its feathers. Draped around its tiny frame was a torn blue cloak—the one worn by King Lucen's favorite companion.
Leon caught the bird as it fell toward him.
Its eyes gleamed briefly, and in that moment, Leon saw.
Flashes of fire. Screams. A crowd demanding to see the king's body. Kael Vireon standing tall atop the palace steps, unmoved. Soldiers dragging citizens from the streets—men, women, children.
And then the curse.
A spell only kings could speak.
A black wave, shredding the air.
Hundreds collapsing, vomiting blood, limbs twisted by invisible force. Mothers clutching their children as the light faded from their eyes.
Leon staggered back. He cradled the bird to his chest, whispering, "No..."
But the images burned into him.
He reached the village square, where a charred fountain still stood. He knelt before it, placing the flame-shaped pendant on the stone.
He closed his eyes, raised both hands, and spoke:
"Memoria Resonus" — ('Let the memory resound.')
From the scorched ground, pale blue light spiraled upward. Spectral echoes shimmered into form: ghostly silhouettes re-enacting the massacre. He watched a mother fall, her arms still wrapped around her baby. He saw the king's soldiers laughing, one wiping blood from his blade.
Leon fell to his knees, fists clenched.
"Am I... too late?"
A tear slipped down his cheek.
He bowed his head for a long moment.
Then he rose, slowly, eyes sharp.
"No. The heir still lives."
He took the pendant, slid it beneath his cloak, and turned back toward the trees.
But he was not alone.
From the mist beyond the village, shadows moved—figures in crimson, sweeping through the woods like wolves.
The Red Crown was hunting.
And the echo had been heard.