Chapter 13: The Veil Between Screams
Zara had stopped running.
The weight of reclaimed memories pressed against her bones, the dagger at her hip pulsing like a second heartbeat. The Hollowed were gone, their erased forms vanishing into the void where rewritten fates had lingered too long. The void-being had retreated, leaving only silence in its wake.
But silence did not mean safety.
She could feel it beneath her skin, threading through her veins like ink dissolving into water—an unsettling truth that refused to remain buried. The Circle was watching. The city was watching.
And something else was listening.
Noel's breath was steady but sharp beside her, his fingers twitching slightly against the hilts of his twin blades. He had seen the fracture. He had watched her reach into it, had seen what came back. But he hadn't said a word about it yet.
He didn't need to.
Aeroth had changed.
The ruins stretched before them like the remnants of a forgotten battlefield, the air thick with the scent of burned parchment and dying wards. Magic that had been sealed for years was unraveling, dust spiraling into the streets like whispers clawing for breath.
Zara clenched her fists.
The Circle had tried to erase the resistance. They had rewritten the Hollowed. They had buried the truth beneath a veil of silence.
She had torn that veil open.
And now, whatever lay beyond was reaching back.
"Where do we go from here?" Noel finally asked.
Zara exhaled, gaze flicking toward the shattered skyline, where Aeroth's Tower—the last standing remnant of the Conclave—loomed like a dying god.
"The Circle won't let this stand," she murmured. "They'll send someone after me."
Noel nodded. "Executioners."
She didn't flinch.
"They'll be coming soon," she said. "Maybe tonight."
Her voice was even, calm—but something inside her burned hotter than it should.
The dagger at her hip thrummed.
Not with warning.
With hunger.
Noel shifted his weight slightly. "You aren't planning to let them come to you, are you?"
Zara smiled faintly.
"No."
Noel swore under his breath. "Zara—"
She walked forward.
The wind shifted.
The shadows moved.
Something was waiting in the city's veins, and she was going to find it before it found her.
The deeper Zara moved through the ruined streets, the more Aeroth revealed itself to her—not just its decaying walls, but its pulse, its buried whispers.
She could hear them now.
Every step she took sent a vibration through the air, a ripple of something old and fractured trying to piece itself back together.
The memories the Circle had stolen weren't gone.
They were screaming.
Noel followed close behind, tension lacing his every movement, but he didn't stop her. He knew better. The moment she had reached into the fracture, she had stepped beyond hesitation.
She had stepped beyond reason.
The alley narrowed as they moved deeper, buildings pressing inward, the remnants of old sigils flickering beneath layers of dust. Zara glanced at one—a fragment of something ancient, something resembling the marks she had seen beneath the Singing Grave.
Her breath stilled.
"These aren't Circle runes," she murmured.
Noel frowned, glancing at the markings. "They're older."
Zara reached out, fingers brushing against the faded ink.
The city pulsed beneath her touch.
Then—
A whisper.
Low. Hollow.
Not from the ruins.
From behind her.
Noel moved instantly, pivoting, blades drawn. Zara spun, dagger raised.
Nothing.
Just the wind.
And yet—
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Something had shifted.
Something had found them.
A voice—smooth, deliberate—carved through the silence.
"You were never meant to wake the dead, Echo-Bearer."
Zara froze.
The alley was empty.
But the voice was inside her mind.
Noel stiffened beside her, his stance shifting slightly, breath shallow. He had heard it too.
This wasn't just an assassin.
This wasn't just another Hollowed.
This was something worse.
Zara's grip tightened.
"If you wanted me erased," she said evenly, "you should have done it before I remembered."
A pause.
Then—
Laughter.
Cold. Sharp.
Not like the Circle's scholars. Not like the Hollowed.
Something different.
Something amused.
Zara's pulse slowed, calculating.
"I don't fear ghosts," she said.
The voice hummed in reply, a vibration threading through the alley like a whisper against stone.
"No," it murmured. "But you should fear what they left behind."
The wind stopped.
The shadows deepened.
And from the darkness—
Something stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked.
Not a Hollowed.
Not a Circle executioner.
Something else.
Something that did not belong in this world.
Noel inhaled sharply, gripping his blades tighter. "Zara—"
She didn't move.
She couldn't.
The figure stepped into the dim light, the fractured glow of the ruined city casting jagged shapes across its form.
Its face was obscured, hidden beneath a veil of shifting black.
But its eyes—its eyes were familiar.
Too familiar.
Zara's heart slammed against her ribs.
She had seen them before.
Not in the streets.
Not in the tower.
In the fracture.
She stepped back, breath shallow.
"You're not real," she whispered.
The figure tilted its head.
And smiled.
"Neither are you."
Zara's dagger screamed.
The city held its breath.
And the battle for memory had only just begun.
***
Zara's dagger vibrated violently in her grip, the resonance pouring into her veins like molten silver. The city held its breath, the shadows lengthening in unnatural ways, twisting against the edges of reality as if unsure whether they belonged to this world or the next.
The figure before her—tall, cloaked, shifting like ink poured into water—smiled. Not in warmth. Not in cruelty. But in knowing.
Zara had seen those eyes before.
In the fracture.
In the fire.
In herself.
She exhaled sharply, grounding her stance, forcing herself to tear away from the illusion of familiarity.
"You're just another weapon the Circle sent," she said, her voice steady, controlled.
The figure's head tilted slightly, amused. "Is that what you think?"
Noel moved beside her, shifting into a defensive stance. He hadn't spoken since the creature appeared, hadn't questioned what it was, hadn't demanded answers. He knew this wasn't something that could be reasoned with.
Only fought.
Only survived.
Zara narrowed her eyes, lifting the dagger slightly. "You came to erase me."
"No," the creature murmured, stepping forward, the motion impossibly smooth, unnaturally silent. "I came to offer you the truth."
Zara tensed.
The words weren't a lie.
She knew lies. She had lived in them, breathed them, fought to unweave them from the fabric of Aeroth's streets.
This was different.
This was a truth she hadn't asked for.
Noel shifted beside her, his breath slow, calculated. "We don't want your truth."
The figure exhaled softly, a sound barely audible, woven into the stillness of the ruined city. "You don't have a choice."
Zara saw it then—the subtle change in the air, the ripple of something unseen, the warning buried beneath the weight of the moment.
They weren't alone.
The city was listening.
And something within it was waking.
The figure raised its hand—pale, skeletal, threaded with veins that pulsed like ink trapped beneath fragile glass. Zara stiffened, forcing herself not to step back.
"Let me show you," it whispered.
The air cracked.
And Aeroth screamed.
A flood of voices burst through the streets, an avalanche of forgotten sound crashing against Zara's senses, tearing through her mind like paper shredded in a storm. She gasped, stumbling slightly, gripping the dagger tighter.
Noel cursed, staggering back, blades raised, but there was nothing to strike.
Because this wasn't an attack.
It was a memory.
A memory that did not belong to her—yet was woven into her existence like a thread pulled taut.
She saw Aeroth before it was ruins.
Before the Silent Conclave.
Before the Circle.
She saw herself—no, not herself, but someone wearing her face, standing on the threshold of something vast, something endless, something alive.
The Singing Grave.
No—beneath it.
Buried deeper.
A gate.
The Gate of Echoes.
The memory twisted violently, reality bending, and then—
She saw her father.
Not burning.
Not dead.
Standing.
Waiting.
And beside him—her mother.
Her voice rang out—not in fear, not in warning, but in fury.
"You should never have opened it."
Zara gasped, tearing herself from the vision, staggering backward, her lungs straining for air. Noel was beside her instantly, steadying her, grounding her.
The figure lowered its hand.
"You were never meant to be just an Echo," it said softly. "You were meant to be something more."
Zara swallowed hard, forcing her breath to even out, forcing herself to push through the storm raging inside her mind.
Her father had opened the gate.
Her mother had tried to close it.
And something had escaped.
Her pulse slammed against her ribs, the mark on her forearm burning with unnatural heat.
"You're lying," she rasped.
The figure smiled again.
"If only that were true."
The wind shifted.
The streets whispered.
And the hunt for her had only just begun.