Volume V – The First Bloom
Chapter One: The Petalwind Ceremony
Part Ten
Date: Maelis 24, Year 204 PCR
Location: Cradle of Aegir – Upper Hall / Archive Wing
Time: Nightfall
They didn't speak after the Echo Chamber trial.
Not on the walk back.
Not up the stairs.
Not when the wind picked up and the glyph-torches flickered like they were scared of something only they could see.
Even Kaelen was quiet.
Even Yolti hummed lower.
But Zephryn?
He walked like he was still frozen.
Because part of him still was.
That whisper from the wall hadn't faded.
It wasn't an echo. It was a sentence—spoken not just to him, but through him.
"We already named you."
He didn't know who we was.
But he had a feeling they were listening right now.
Buta stood in the stronghold's Archive Wing.
Not many knew it existed.
It wasn't marked by glyphs or flame—it was built into the cold spine of the stronghold, half-submerged in Veilstone. No one but Buta had ever stepped beyond its gate.
Until now.
One by one, the four of them followed.
Even Lumyra.
She didn't ask. She just walked behind them, arms folded, white braid tied tight behind her shoulder. Her eyes didn't flicker when the stone opened.
She had already seen this place.
The archive wasn't scrolls.
It was songs.
Dozens of memory orbs—pulsing fragments of echo-imbued resonance—floating silently in dark recesses. Not labeled. Not ordered.
They weren't meant to be read.
They were meant to be remembered.
Buta lit no torches.
He only placed his hand on a pedestal in the center of the room.
"We were supposed to wait," he muttered. "But the glyph jumped."
He looked at Zephryn.
"You skipped the resonance phase. The song isn't meant to ask questions this early."
Zephryn didn't move.
"Why did it say I already had a name?"
Buta didn't answer.
He pressed his palm into the pedestal.
A single orb rose—violet-blue, shimmering with fracture lines running across its surface.
"Because someone named you before you were born."
Kaelen stepped forward, scowling. "You've been hiding this?"
Buta didn't blink.
"This isn't a secret. It's a burial."
He turned to Selka.
"Your mother knew what the Choir was doing before any of us."
Selka tensed. "You said we wouldn't talk about her."
"I said we wouldn't lie about her. This is different."
He pointed to the orb.
"This isn't just Solara's record. It's a Veilmark anchor—a harmonic imprint of her resonance before she vanished."
"She made this for one person."
Zephryn's throat tightened. "Me."
Buta nodded.
"She knew you'd forget.
She knew they'd make you."
The orb pulsed brighter.
It sang.
Not loud. Not like a voice.
Just a tone—low, infinite, echoing through every piece of stone like the Veil itself exhaled.
And in that pulse, Zephryn remembered:
A hand brushing his hair. A glyph flaring in rhythm with a heartbeat. A voice whispering in the dark:
"When the others fall silent, you sing."
The orb dimmed.
No message. No speech.
Just memory.
Just resonance.
And Zephryn fell to his knees, not from pain—but because he finally understood:
The glyph had never belonged to him.
It had belonged to someone who refused to forget him.
Buta turned from the pedestal.
"From this day forward, your glyph is not just a mark.
It is a memory channel—
And anything that resonates through it, through you…
will carry the voice of the one who gave it to you."
The others stood in silence.
Lumyra's hands curled slightly.
Selka's breath caught.
Kaelen didn't move.
Yolti reached for Zephryn's shoulder—but stopped just short.
And in that silence, the wind screamed outside the stronghold—not howling, not violent, just… familiar.
Because it wasn't just wind anymore.
It was the sound of something old stirring beneath them.
Above the archive—
in the training chamber they'd left behind—
the glyphs on the wall lit again.
Not because anyone called them.
Because someone—or something—had heard Solara's echo rise again.
And now?
They were answering.