Echoes of the Unnamed

The wind howled as they trudged through the black forest, the whispering cube nestled tightly in Rico's satchel. Though wrapped in three layers of alchemic cloth and sealed in a silence rune, the artifact still spoke.

Rico. Alchemist. Traitor. Savior.

Each word was like a chisel against his sanity.

"You alright?" Lyra asked, glancing sideways.

"No," Rico said honestly. "This thing knows too much. It's not just an artifact."

"What is it, then?"

Rico looked up at the moon. "A confession box. For the damned."

---

They reached the hidden grove by midnight, its entrance shielded by a veil spell. It had taken weeks to secure it with anti-tracking glyphs, elemental barriers, and illusions. But tonight, even that didn't feel like enough.

As they entered, the three other artifacts pulsed. The moment the cube was set beside them, all four glowed and hummed in harmony.

Lyra stood back. "They're syncing."

Rico frowned. "They're aligning. This was Vorr's plan."

He lit the warding flames and sat cross-legged before the artifacts, palms open. Slowly, the glyphs on his forearms activated—burning blue, then green, then silver. Alchemic runes swirled around the cube.

"Accessing memory stream," Rico murmured. "Conscious override initiated. Secure channel."

The cube floated.

Then it spoke in a clear, unnatural voice.

"Phase One complete. The Alchemist still walks."

Lyra stepped closer. "It's Vorr's voice again."

Rico stayed focused. "Keep quiet. Let's see where this goes."

"You gathered the Keys. You found the Threads. You kept the guilt hidden beneath your brilliance. But your story was never just yours, Rico Maldino."

The cube shifted, displaying projections—moving shadows across its surface. A younger version of Rico appeared, laughing, mixing a potion. Then—a man falling. Screams. Fire. Blood.

Lyra's hand tightened on her dagger.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

Rico didn't respond.

"To renounce sin is to name it. Have you named yours, Alchemist?" the voice asked.

The cube dimmed.

Then it revealed a new projection: a map.

But not just any map.

This one showed five more artifacts, scattered across the continent—each marked with symbols of chaos.

Lyra leaned in. "There's more?"

"Seven total," Rico whispered. "Of course."

"Why seven?"

"Because seven is sacred. Seven sins. Seven cycles. Vorr was always obsessed with symmetry."

They copied the map, extinguished the flames, and buried the cube again. Whatever came next… would be worse.

---

Two days later, they reached the merchant city of Demerith—a place built on secrets and silver. Rico hated cities like this. Too many whispers. Too many people pretending not to see death.

But they had to restock.

Lyra negotiated with a half-giant weapons dealer while Rico ducked into an alchemist's guild.

It was quiet inside—until he approached the crystal counter.

"You've got a death mark," said a voice behind the shelves.

Rico blinked. "Excuse me?"

An old woman emerged—blind in both eyes, her fingers stained with decades of potionwork.

"I can smell it on you," she said. "You've touched a tethered artifact."

He froze. "How do you know that?"

"Because the last man who did burned half this district when it took his mind. You're still holding, aren't you?"

Rico nodded slowly.

The woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a tiny vial of golden liquid.

"Drink this before your next dream," she said. "Or the cube will start whispering through your memories."

Rico took it with trembling fingers.

"No charge?"

She smiled. "This is about balance, boy. Not gold."

He turned to leave but paused. "Who are you?"

She tilted her head. "A retired nightmare. Like you."

---

That night, as they camped outside Demerith, Rico drank the golden vial. Its taste was bitter and cold, like melted snow and regret.

He drifted into sleep.

And there, in the dream, he stood not as himself—but as Vorr.

The dark sorcerer stood atop a mountain of skulls, arms raised, as thunder cracked the heavens. In his hands, two of the artifacts floated—one glowing red, the other black as night.

"They'll never forgive you," Vorr whispered.

Then he turned, and Rico realized—Vorr wore his face.

No. Not my face. My guilt.

Rico woke up screaming.

---

"What happened?" Lyra knelt beside him, blade drawn.

Rico coughed. "I saw him. Vorr. He's... becoming something else."

She helped him sit up. "Like what?"

"Like me. But unbound."

They sat silently for a while.

"Do you think… he's trying to make you into him?" Lyra finally asked.

Rico looked into the flames.

"I think… I already was. I'm just trying to stop the second version."

---

Their next destination was The Sunken Vault, a ruined fortress submerged in half-flooded marshes. The map had shown a hidden artifact chamber buried beneath its catacombs.

But it wasn't unguarded.

As they crossed into the marshlands, mist rolled in thick and fast. The air smelled of decay and old sorcery.

They walked in silence, weapons drawn.

Suddenly—movement. Figures. Dozens. Rising from the waters.

Lyra cursed. "Revenants."

Undead, half-alive sorcerers whose souls were trapped by corrupted rituals. They moved like shadows, faces blank, eyes glowing pale green.

"We can't outrun them," Lyra said.

"Then we break the spell controlling them."

Rico scanned the marsh. "There—on that pillar. See the mark?"

She nodded. "A blood seal. Vorr's work."

Rico threw a vial of silver salt; the blast scattered some revenants but didn't stop the others.

"We need to get closer," he said.

Lyra nodded and bolted forward, slicing through one revenant, dodging another. Rico followed, lobbing flash grenades to disorient them.

They reached the pillar. A glowing rune pulsed on its surface.

Rico activated his gauntlet, tracing the counter-sigil over it.

"Come on, come on..."

The rune exploded in light—and the revenants collapsed.

All of them.

Silent once more.

---

They entered the Vault through a broken gate, water up to their knees. Glyphs lit up around the chamber as they moved deeper, until finally, they found it.

The fifth artifact.

This one was different.

It was a mirror.

But not one that showed your reflection.

When Rico looked into it, he saw every version of himself he could have been—a father, a killer, a king, a beggar, a priest.

Then it spoke.

"Do you see now? Every step you take is still a choice."

Lyra stared at her own reflection—and gasped.

She saw herself... dead.

Burned. Bleeding. Still smiling.

She backed away.

"We have to leave. Now."

Rico nodded. He pulled a containment box from his pouch and sealed the mirror inside.

But as they turned to go—

A new voice echoed through the vault.

"Bravo. Truly magnificent."

They turned.

Standing in the archway was a woman dressed in black leather, her boots barely making a sound on the stone.

Her face was covered by a half-mask.

But her presence was unmistakable.

Zhara Vayne. Vorr's hunter.

"I've been watching you," she said, voice smooth as silk over broken glass.

Lyra stepped forward, blades out. "You work for Vorr."

"I work for balance," Zhara replied. "And Rico? He's tipping the scales."

She flicked her wrist.

A blade of pure energy appeared.

"Let's dance, Redeemed."

---