Embers And Echoes

The river had taken them. The current split the group like fate split destinies.

Lira woke coughing, her limbs sore and cold, her tunic soaked and clinging to her skin. The morning light bled gold through the mist hanging over the forest canopy. Nearby, Rye lay curled, shivering but breathing. They had survived.

But Kael and Alfred had not surfaced.

Lira scrambled up, slipping on wet stones, her voice raw as she shouted their names. Nothing answered but the soft rush of the water as it wound away into the trees.

She didn't cry. Not yet.

Instead, she pulled Rye into shelter beneath a rocky overhang and lit a small fire from what dry wood she could scavenge. They sat in silence, the smoke curling like questions.

That night, when sleep came, it came with fire.

---

In her dream, Lira stood in a vast white hall. A floating book hovered before her, its pages turning against windless air. It was bound in leather etched with strange glyphs, glowing faintly with silver light.

From the shadows emerged a woman in robes like time made flesh—hair white, skin ageless, eyes of fractured stars.

"Child of the Stream," the woman said. "You are not lost, but divided."

Lira stepped forward. "What is this place?"

"Memory. Future. Truth."

The book opened. Symbols she had never learned yet somehow understood began to flicker before her eyes. Her palm began to burn faintly, the mark of the Chronarchs glowing as if waking from sleep.

"When the stream splits, you must choose what is lost, and what remains," the woman whispered. "The Codex remembers."

---

Lira woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to her neck despite the cold. The mark on her palm still glowed faintly, fading only after she clenched her fist.

Rye stirred beside the dying fire. "Another vision?"

She hesitated. Then nodded.

"Did it tell you where Kael is?"

"No," she said. "But it showed me a path."

---

They traveled slowly through the foothills, weaving around fallen branches and broken ruins from an age before memory. Lira's body ached. The cut on her side throbbed.

That afternoon, when she stumbled and opened the wound again, she cursed beneath her breath.

Rye ran to help, but she raised a hand. "No. Let me try."

She closed her eyes and focused.

She whispered, "Alen thor vitrae."

Time bent around her hand like smoke curling backward. The blood slowed, then vanished into the skin. The torn flesh closed with a shimmer of soft silver.

Rye's eyes widened. "You healed yourself. With time?"

"Reversed the injury, not healed," Lira corrected, swaying slightly. "It takes strength. Too much, and I could unravel more than the wound."

"Still," Rye muttered, impressed, "that's... incredible."

---

That night, as they rested beside a shattered archway half-swallowed by vines, Rye practiced with his dagger.

"You're holding it wrong," Lira called gently.

He turned. "Oh? Teach me, then."

She approached and showed him how to position his feet, how to shift weight.

"Before we control time," she said, "we must master the moment."

Rye chuckled. "You sound like a Chronarch elder."

"My mother was. For a while."

Silence lingered between them.

"Why didn't you go after the Codex?" he asked. "You clearly want it."

She stared into the trees. "Because power without purpose is just... hunger. We don't chase power. We become worthy of it."

---

The next morning, the terrain changed. Trees grew thicker, their bark glimmering faintly. The soil darkened. The air smelled old.

They had entered the borderlands of the Shapeborn Clan.

Lira slowed, hand brushing her blade.

"We're close," she murmured.

Rye looked at her. "Do we go in?"

Lira nodded. "We find Kael. We find the shard. And we survive. Together."

Above them, the wind shifted. Somewhere far away, a page turned in a book not yet found.

And Lira felt the Codex wait.

---

The fire crackled low in their small camp. Shadows flickered along the narrow forest path, and somewhere in the trees, a lone owl sang to the stars. Rye crouched by the fire, absently sharpening a blade far too dull to be useful. His expression was tight. Focused.

Lira stood a few paces away, facing an empty clearing. She had wrapped her wound in fresh cloth earlier and now breathed slowly, her eyes closed.

"You're not sleeping again," Rye said quietly, not looking up.

Lira opened one eye. "I don't sleep much when we're being hunted."

He paused his sharpening. "Then teach me. Something. Anything."

Lira turned to face him fully, the flickering firelight casting sharp edges on her face. "You've held a blade before. But you fight like a man trying not to be noticed."

Rye looked down. "Because I am."

She stepped closer. "Not anymore. You asked to come. We didn't drag you into this. So if you want to fight… start standing like it."

She walked over and tapped his knees. "Widen your stance. No, not like that—you're going to fall flat on your back if I push you."

He adjusted again.

"Better," she nodded. "Now don't just brace. Think of it like water rooted in rock—flexible, but grounded. You move with pressure, not against it."

Rye tried again, mimicking the stance.

"Now breathe. Low and steady. Stop holding your shoulders like a frightened squirrel."

Rye tried not to smile, even as she corrected his arms. "You're better at insults than compliments."

"It's a gift."

Then her voice softened. "You're not just holding a weapon, Rye. You're telling the world: I won't break. That's the stance I learned when I was seven, before I even knew what I was."

He looked at her. "Before you knew you were a Chronarch?"

Lira nodded slowly. "Back then, I just thought I had bad dreams and fast feet. My mother showed me that stance the night she told me who I was. And I've never forgotten it."

Rye looked down at his feet, his arms, his breath. Then nodded.

She stepped back. "Good. We'll build on that tomorrow."

---

Later, while Rye dozed beside the fire, Lira stepped into the trees. The moon cast silver paths through the underbrush. Her hand brushed against the shard hidden beneath her armor—the fragment Kael carried had changed him. But hers… hers only echoed when she dared to try.

And tonight, she would try again.

She took a breath and whispered an old chant she had learned in secret from one of the quiet teachers of her bloodline:

> "Selvarin al'Toras." (Step between now and next.)

She focused her mind forward—not on what she was doing, but what she would do.

Then she moved.

Just a blink.

A flutter of light.

Her body shifted with unnatural speed—one step forward became two, her shadow momentarily splitting and reforming ahead of where she began.

Lira stumbled, clutching a nearby tree. Her breath caught in her throat.

She had done it. Not perfectly, but she had.

Temporal Step. Fast. Subtle. But real.

She looked at her hands, still trembling. The ache in her ribs flared, but even that couldn't drown the thrill beneath her skin.

---

Dawn came as mist between branches.

Rye stood with his blade in hand, repeating the stance she gave him. His movements were clumsy, but steadier now. More confident.

"Keep your feet wider," Lira called softly.

He adjusted.

"You used the magic again last night, didn't you?" he asked.

She blinked. "What makes you think that?"

"You walked differently. Lighter. Like you were still moving before you stopped."

Lira allowed a rare smirk. "Maybe you're learning something after all."

She turned serious. "There are seven techniques I've heard whispers of. Not all of them are written. But I've remembered the first few—some barely work. The rest… I'll need the Codex."

"You really think the Codex exists?"

"I know it does. I've seen it."

"In a vision?"

She nodded. "But…" Her voice trailed off. "Even if I find it… I'm not sure I'm ready."

Rye lowered his blade. "You're ready enough to not run. That's more than most."

Lira watched him for a long moment.

Then, quietly: "We head for the Shapeborn village. We'll meet them there."

Rye looked up, surprised. "You're not going after the Codex?"

"Not alone." Her voice was firm now. "This isn't just my journey. I won't leave you behind."

---