Chapter 12: Whispers Beneath the Storm

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The road beyond Tenria was a winding path carved between hills blanketed in silver-tipped grass, undulating like ocean waves in the wind. With the memories of Aria's birthland still clinging to them like morning mist, the trio pushed forward, hearts heavy with revelations but aflame with purpose. The mark in Aria's palm pulsed with a soft glow, warm against her skin, as if Tenria had breathed something into her — a memory, a piece of herself, a quiet whisper of what must come next.

They were heading to the fifth fragment — deep in the Wraithmire, a realm lost in myth, where light was swallowed whole and shadows listened too closely. The sky darkened earlier here. Trees leaned in, their twisted branches clawing at the air like silent sentinels. Even the ground felt different — softer, almost damp, like walking on buried secrets.

Arinthal led, her staff glowing faintly to ward off the ambient dread that clung to the path like frost. Lyrien walked beside Aria, his cloak brushing hers as if anchoring her to something familiar. He glanced at her occasionally, eyes flitting to her palm when he thought she wasn't looking. He'd never asked what the mark truly meant — not in words, anyway — but his silence was heavier than most questions.

They stopped at the edge of a dried-up riverbed that wound like a scar through the terrain.

"This is where it begins," Arinthal murmured, tapping her staff into the earth. "The Wraithmire. Few who enter return. The Echo fragment here is... unstable. Bound to memory. It'll test you. Twist what's inside."

Aria's eyes narrowed. "Twist?"

"It's a realm of echoes," Arinthal said grimly. "But not just the fragments. Your own echoes. Regrets. Fears. Pain."

Lyrien shifted beside her. "So it'll know us better than we know ourselves."

Arinthal nodded. "Exactly."

Without another word, they crossed the dry riverbed. The moment they did, the world shifted.

Fog spilled like liquid silver across their feet, and the air grew unnaturally still. Trees here were withered and brittle, blackened as if burned by fire and regret. Every sound felt louder — a snapped twig, a breath, the rustle of a cloak — echoing too long before falling silent. They didn't talk. Even whispers felt dangerous.

Then it came.

A soft cry. Like a child. Far off. Then closer. Then behind them.

Aria froze. "Did you hear that?"

Lyrien turned, sword half-drawn. "It's trying to lure us."

"Don't follow it," Arinthal commanded. "No matter what you hear."

They pressed on. The crying faded into laughter. Then screaming. Aria clenched her fists, the scar in her palm burning. It was reacting — to the realm, or to something deeper. She didn't know.

They reached a clearing where the air hung heavy like a storm waiting to break. In the center stood a mirror — tall, ancient, cracked through its center. Mist clung to it like a living thing.

"The fragment's here," Arinthal whispered. "But this time, we won't fight a beast."

As they approached, the mirror shimmered — then shifted.

Three figures stepped out.

Aria staggered back. Her mother stood before her, as young as Aria remembered. Alive. Smiling.

Lyrien faced an older man with Lyrien's eyes but none of his warmth — a former general of the Thornwatch, his father.

Arinthal faced a younger version of herself, robes stained with blood, eyes hollow.

None of them spoke. They simply stared. Waiting.

Aria felt her throat tighten. Her mother's face — so real, so alive — awakened something she'd buried deep. Guilt. Longing. Rage.

"This isn't real," she whispered.

"But I am," the image replied. Her voice. Her tone. Perfect. "You let me die."

Aria shook her head. "No. You gave your life to save mine."

"And yet here you are. You think this power, this quest, will fix the hole in you? That your pain makes you special?"

Aria's fists trembled.

"She's not real," Lyrien said, voice firm despite his own shaking hands. The figure before him was speaking too — whispering things only he could hear. His eyes burned with memory, jaw clenched.

Arinthal closed her eyes, raising her staff. "They're drawing from your regrets. They grow stronger the longer we listen."

The images stepped forward, now sneering. "You don't deserve to lead," Aria's mother hissed. "You're just a scared child pretending to be a savior."

The scar in Aria's palm flared — and for a moment, clarity broke through the fog. She saw not her mother, but the truth: a parasite formed from her grief, feeding on it, weaponizing it.

"I loved you," she whispered. "But you're not her."

And then — with both palms glowing — Aria stepped forward and pressed her hand against the mirror.

The world exploded into light.

The figures shrieked and shattered into mist. The mirror cracked fully — and from it, a small shard floated out, glowing deep violet.

The fifth Echo fragment.

Aria caught it mid-air. It sizzled against her scar, and something within her shifted. Like a lock clicking open.

But her strength faltered. She dropped to one knee.

Lyrien caught her. "You did it."

Arinthal retrieved the fragment, placing it into the containment crystal on her belt. "This one came at a cost."

They camped on the edge of Wraithmire, in a hollow shielded from the wind. Aria stared into the fire, her hand wrapped in cloth. The mark still glowed faintly beneath it.

Lyrien sat beside her, closer than usual.

"You alright?" he asked softly.

Aria didn't look at him. "She knew things. Said things only she could have known."

"That's the point," Lyrien said. "It's not magic. It's memory. Twisted. You didn't fail her."

"I know," Aria said. "But it still hurt."

Silence settled between them. The kind that didn't need to be filled. Then Lyrien nudged her shoulder.

"For what it's worth... I don't think you're just pretending to be a savior."

She turned, eyes narrowing playfully. "Oh?"

"I think you might actually be one."

She laughed. A quiet, tired sound. But real.

Behind them, unseen, a pair of crimson eyes watched from beyond the trees — slits of rage and curiosity.

Lord Xandros sat atop a shadowed throne in the fractured Veil, scrying through black mirrors stitched from void threads. His fingers tapped the armrest, a slow, rhythmic beat.

"They're growing," he whispered. "Foolish little stars. Reaching for light they cannot wield."

He stood, cloak billowing with silent violence.

"Prepare the Hollowed. The sixth realm awaits."

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