Echoes of the Past

Leo had barely slept. The thin light of dawn crept over the broken rooftops, turning the rubble into a forest of shadows. Every corner of Arathis seemed to whisper, as though the darkness had crawled into the very stones.

He stepped over a shattered wall, the air heavy with the scent of old fires and damp stone. Kara was already there, perched on a broken pillar with her rifle across her lap. Her eyes were hard, but the set of her jaw told him she was bone-tired.

"Not much sleep?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

She shook her head. "Every time I closed my eyes, I heard them." She didn't have to say who. Leo knew.

Jarek's boots crunched on the broken ground as he approached, axe slung across his back. "Can't stand this silence," he muttered. "Feels like the city's holding its breath."

Aícha was behind him, staff glowing softly in the half-light. Her robes were dusted with ash, her face drawn. "The silence isn't just silence," she said. "It's… waiting."

Leo felt it too—a pressure that made his skin crawl. Like the darkness was coiling, ready to strike. He hefted his machete, the rune along its blade glowing with a tired light.

"Any sign of movement?" he asked Kara.

"Nothing," she said. "But that's the problem. Not even a rat."

Rhys stumbled up, clutching a battered med kit. His hands trembled. "Leo," he said, voice hoarse, "I saw something near the old cathedral. Looked like writing—old writing. Might be something."

Leo's eyes narrowed. "Show me."

Rhys led them through the crumbling streets, where the wind moaned between broken walls. The cathedral loomed like a wounded beast, its spire cracked and leaning. At its base, a set of steps led into the shadows.

Inside, the air was thick and cold. Leo's breath misted as he descended, his boots echoing in the hollow darkness. Aícha's staff cast a pale light, revealing murals on the walls—scenes of knights in battle, of robed figures raising their hands in supplication.

Leo ran his fingers over the worn stone. The carvings were old—older than any map he'd ever seen.

"Pre-collapse," Aícha whispered. "Maybe even older than the first darkness."

Kara ran her hand along the wall, tracing a figure crowned in flame. "Who are they?" she asked.

Jarek snorted. "Does it matter? They're dead."

Leo shook his head. "No. Look here." He pointed to a line of runes, half-buried under a layer of dust. "This is a warning."

Aícha leaned in, eyes squinting. "Beware the hunger that comes in shadow," she translated. "It feeds on fear and hate. When the hunger wakes, no sword can kill it."

Jarek's hand tightened on his axe. "Sounds familiar."

Leo stared at the words, his stomach sinking. "It's been here before," he muttered. "We're not the first."

Kara's eyes met his, hard. "Then why didn't they stop it?"

Aícha's staff flickered. "Maybe they couldn't."

A sound rose from the darkness—a low, wet scraping. Leo's heart jumped.

"Lights out," he hissed.

The survivors froze, weapons drawn. The darkness seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting like a living thing.

From the corner of the chamber, a shape moved. A shadow peeled itself from the wall, its form shifting—a human silhouette, but wrong.

It shambled forward, head twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes hollow. "Leo…" it croaked, voice like shattered glass.

Leo's hand trembled on his machete. He recognized that voice, even though it was impossible. "Marin," he breathed.

The shape lunged. Leo's blade swung reflexively, carving a silver arc through the air. The figure dissolved in a burst of darkness that scattered like ashes.

Aícha's staff flared. "Illusions," she spat. "The darkness uses our memories against us."

Jarek's axe swung back and forth, searching. "It's playing with us," he growled. "Like it knows every wound we carry."

Rhys pressed a hand to his chest, eyes wide. "It whispered my name," he said. "Said I was the reason they died."

Leo's stomach turned. "It's feeding," he realized. "On our guilt. Our anger. That's its fuel."

Aícha nodded grimly. "And every time we let it in, it grows stronger."

Kara's rifle snapped up. "Then let's starve it."

Leo's machete pulsed in his grip. "We need to find the source," he said. "If we cut that off—"

A rumble shook the chamber, dust raining from the ceiling. A deep voice, not human, rolled through the air. "You cannot kill what you are," it hissed.

Jarek's face twisted. "What the hell does that mean?"

Leo's voice was tight. "It means it's inside us."

Kara's eyes flared. "Then we fight that too."

Aícha's staff glowed, runes sparking. "We can't run from this, Leo," she said. "We fight or we're lost."

Leo nodded. "Then we fight."

The darkness surged from every corner, forming a ring of shifting shapes. Faces—some familiar, some monstrous—leered at them from the gloom.

Jarek's axe swung in a wide arc, cutting down a shape that lunged at his throat. Kara's rifle barked, muzzle flashes painting the darkness with bursts of light.

Aícha's staff shone like a dying star as she chanted, her voice steady.

Leo's machete burned in his hand, the rune flaring. He felt the darkness claw at his mind—Marin's face, the dying screams of the city—but he fought it down.

With every swing, every breath, he drove it back.

The darkness howled, the ring of shadows closing. But Leo held his ground.

A final scream rose—a sound of rage and hate—and then silence.

Leo stood in the ruin, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. Around him, the survivors caught their breath, weapons lowering.

Aícha's staff dimmed. "We bought time," she whispered. "But it's not over."

Leo stared at the runes on the wall, at the ancient warnings. "We're the fuel," he said. "Our fears. Our hate."

Kara's voice was quiet but firm. "So we learn to starve it."

Jarek's axe rested on his shoulder. "And if it comes again, we fight."

Leo nodded. "Yeah," he said. "We fight. Because it's not the darkness that decides who we are. We do."

The cathedral lay silent around them, the darkness retreating—watching, waiting.

Leo raised his machete, the rune still glowing, defiant.

They weren't done yet.