Echoes Beneath The Lantern Sky

The moonlight washed the city of Elarith in a pale silver hue. It was the kind of night poets romanticized and beggars hated—quiet, clear, and cruel. Kairo sat atop the slanted red-tiled roof of the East Quarter's oldest bookstore, one leg bent and the other dangling freely over the edge. His eyes were fixed not on the stars, but on a flickering lantern down below.

"That old man has been sweeping the same spot for ten minutes," he murmured.

Beside him, Samhael sprawled like a bored cat, her head resting on folded arms. "Maybe he's casting a protection rune. You know—'Elderly Cleanse Formation, Level One.'"

Kairo snorted. "That sounds fake."

She tapped the side of her temple. "Magic is 80% confidence. The rest is convincing the world you meant it."

A dry chuckle escaped him. "That's why you're the walking embodiment of delusion."

"Thank you," she said, bowing theatrically.

Below them, the lantern-light flickered again, but not because of the wind. It pulsed—like a heartbeat. Kairo's smile faded.

"You feel that?" he asked.

Samhael's eyes opened, sharp as blades. "Oh, I do."

The flickering intensified, and with it, came a low hum—inaudible to the normal ear, but not to Kairo.

"It speaks."

The voice brushed against his mind like warm breath against skin. Not a whisper, not a shout—just… present.

"What's it saying?" Samhael asked, adjusting her gloves.

He closed his eyes. Focused. The sound wasn't coming from the lantern—it was beneath it. Beneath the city. His perception, fine-tuned from years of resisting voices and hearing what shouldn't be heard, dove downward.

Stone. Water. Clay. Metal. Bone.

Then he heard it again.

"Hollow tongue, sealed in glass. Break the silence; break the past."

He opened his eyes.

"Something's buried under Elarith," he said.

"An artifact?"

"No," he said, standing. "A vault. A big one."

Samhael sat up. "You're serious?"

"More than usual."

"I don't like that."

Kairo leapt off the roof, landing with the elegance of a falling curtain. Samhael followed, less graceful, more chaotic, almost tripping over a cat. The lantern flickered again as they approached, its glow rhythmic now.

The old man sweeping the ground looked up at them. "You two again?"

"We've never met," Kairo replied.

The man grinned, missing a few teeth. "Ain't that funny? You've always been here, boy. Just not at the right time."

Kairo blinked. "Excuse me?"

The man's eyes glowed faintly, and then the street warped—not physically, but perceptually. Everything dulled—the colors, the sounds, the scent of bread and fish oil in the air. Samhael swore. "An illusion barrier?"

"No," Kairo whispered. "A memory."

The buildings looked the same—but they were… younger. Cleaner. And people walked in silence, like ghosts. Elarith, as it once was. A century ago, maybe more.

The lantern was now a pillar of light, spiraling upward like a beacon. Kairo's ears rang with ancient whispers.

"He hears. He hears. The boy hears."

The old man was gone. In his place stood a figure cloaked in vines and chains, faceless, hovering an inch off the ground. The air turned heavy.

"Ah," Samhael said. "This again."

Kairo stepped forward. "What is this place?"

The figure's mouth opened—a hollow space—and a voice emerged like water being poured backwards.

"Elarith remembers. You walk upon echoes. The vault below guards the voice of origin. You are the Speaker. We listen still."

Samhael stared at Kairo. "Did he just say voice of origin?"

Kairo's mind swirled. "I've read about that. It's theorized to be the first sound—the first Word that shaped the world. A primordial power."

The figure dissolved, like smoke caught in wind. The illusion broke. They were back in modern Elarith. The lantern was no longer pulsing.

Kairo staggered.

Samhael caught his arm. "What did you hear?"

"Everything," he said breathlessly. "Everything. All at once. It wasn't just sound—it was intention. Emotion. History. Like a scream and a lullaby mixed together."

"And the vault?"

"Real. It's below the city, hidden behind a forgotten chant." He paused. "But now it knows I'm listening."

Samhael didn't smile. "Then let's hope it likes what it hears."

Elsewhere...

In a tower surrounded by endless bookshelves and arcane mechanisms, a cloaked woman paused in her writing. Her quill stopped mid-stroke.

She looked up, eyes glazed with the faint shimmer of clairvoyance. "The boy heard it," she whispered. "The vault has stirred."

A shadow moved behind her. "He's ahead of schedule."

"Or we're behind," she replied, standing.

The shadow stepped into the candlelight. A man with no eyes, only smooth skin where sockets should be. "Shall I inform the Circle?"

The woman narrowed her gaze. "No. Not yet. Let him open the door. He's the only one who can speak its name."

Back in Elarith...

Kairo and Samhael leaned against the alley wall, catching their breath.

"Let's never follow flickering lanterns again," Samhael muttered.

"No promises," Kairo said, managing a grin.

The tension broke. They both laughed—short, breathless, but real.

Then Samhael punched his shoulder. "Next time you're going to trip reality like that, warn me."

"Will do," he said, rubbing the sore spot.

They walked in silence through the now-calm streets of Elarith, passing shuttered shops and flickering streetlamps. The city had returned to its ordinary rhythm—but nothing felt ordinary anymore.

Samhael glanced sideways. "You okay?"

Kairo shrugged. "I'm not sure. Something about that voice… it didn't feel foreign. It felt like it knew me."

"You think it's related to how your ability works?"

"Maybe. Or maybe the voice is the reason I have my ability." He looked up at the sky, where the stars blinked like Morse code secrets. "What if I was always meant to hear it?"

Samhael looked thoughtful. "Then let's make sure it was worth waiting for."

They stopped near the riverbank, where the water whispered against the stones like soft static. Kairo dipped his hand into the cold flow.

"Tomorrow," he said, staring into the current, "we find a way underground."

"Through what? Sewer grates? Rat tunnels?"

"I was thinking more 'ancient ruins beneath the cathedral,'" he said. "Less smelly."

Samhael grinned. "Either way, I'm bringing gloves."

They walked back toward their inn beneath the moonlight, unaware that behind them, the lantern that had started it all flickered once more—this time, not like a heartbeat, but like a breath.