CHAPTER 13: Echoes That Shouldn’t Speak

The sun never quite pierced the trees of the Red Pines.

Their branches wove a ceiling overhead — not just of leaves, but of old, brittle needles the color of dried blood. The canopy was so thick that only scattered veins of sunlight reached the forest floor. Those that did were warped crimson, as if bleeding through the branches.

It wasn't just dim beneath the Red Pines.

It was wrong.

The ground underfoot squelched softly with each step, spongy with layers of damp moss and mulch. Pale mushrooms bloomed in the shadows like open wounds. Every now and then, the group passed bones — long, curved, and brittle. Bell never saw any full skeletons, just fragments: a rib here, a twisted jaw there. Beasts unrecorded, unremembered.

Things that didn't leave legends.

Bell led the way on horseback, his white mare gliding like a ghost over the uneven terrain. Her hooves made almost no sound, even on the roots and decay. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword.

Behind him, the cart groaned gently under its weight. Seria rode beside it, her legs hooked over the side as she furiously scribbled in her journal. She muttered to herself without pause — calculations, observations, or curses. It was always hard to tell.

"Third ruin this month," she mumbled. "Second serpent motif. Five unrecorded glyphs. And that shrine…"

Cid lounged in the cart, arms folded behind his head, a half-eaten biscuit in one hand. "Are we sure we're not just following the world's most dramatic snake cult?"

Seria didn't even glance up. "If you understood half the inscriptions we passed, you wouldn't be joking."

"I only understand lunch," Cid said, tossing the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. "Which reminds me… is it too early to make camp?"

Bell allowed himself a small smile but didn't look back. "Yes, Cid. It's barely past noon."

Cid groaned. "Then this forest needs to reschedule its vibe. My internal clock says we've been walking since the invention of dirt."

They had entered the Red Pines not long after leaving the serpent shrine — the hollow where the stone had breathed. Or seemed to. No one had said it aloud since. Not even Seria. She had buried herself in research, but even then, Bell could see it in her eyes. She wasn't just curious.

She was unnerved.

Bell didn't want to speak of it either. Not the mist. Not the pulse. Not the breathing.

Something about that place had felt less like they had stumbled into a ruin and more like they had trespassed into a memory that still remembered pain.

And now, in these woods, the air was thick again.

Not with danger, but with awareness.Not hunger.Memory.

Something was watching them — not like a predator watches prey, but like a god watches ants building too close to its altar.

By late afternoon, they found a clearing.

The trees thinned just enough to let light in, revealing a natural glade still steeped in red. The center held a wide, flat stone, cracked down the middle like a broken plate. Around it grew a perfect circle of mushrooms — pale and round, too evenly spaced.

Bell raised a hand, slowing the mare. "Camp here."

Cid sat up immediately and stretched, spine popping. "Finally. I think my bones forgot how to be bones."

They dismounted and began unpacking. Cid set about collecting kindling, though he managed to complain at least three times per stick. Bell unpacked the rations and checked the perimeter. And Seria… Seria had wandered straight to the cracked stone.

She circled it twice, fingers brushing over glyphs faintly carved into its edges.

"This isn't a grave," she said softly, almost reverently.

Bell turned. "No?"

"No," she murmured. "It's… an echo site."

He frowned. "What does that mean?"

Seria knelt beside the stone, brushing moss away with the sleeve of her robe. "A place built to hold a voice. Like a well holds water. You speak into it, and if the ritual lines up — if the symbols, the placement, the surroundings all agree — then it answers."

"Answers?" Cid said, returning with a bundle of branches. "You mean like one of those parrot stones? Say something once and it squawks it back for the next hundred years?"

Seria gave him a look that could fossilize a lizard.

"You're not entirely wrong," she said.

Bell crouched beside her, examining the glyphs. They looked old — not just in age, but in intent. Every curve, every spiral, felt ancient. Not forgotten. Buried.

"You think it's still active?" he asked.

Seria didn't respond.

But the stone was warm beneath her palm.

That night, the fire burned low. The red haze above had faded to a smoky indigo, but no stars were visible — only the impression of weight behind the sky.

Seria sat closer to Bell than usual, a wool blanket pulled around her shoulders. Her fingers were stained with ink. Her boots were damp. Her expression, though, was thoughtful.

Bell poked at the fire with a stick.

"You ever think about quitting?"

Seria glanced over. "Quitting what?"

"This," he said. "The road. The relics. The… trying. All of it."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I used to. When I was younger. When it hurt more."

"And now?"

She leaned a little closer. "Now I think I'd regret never knowing how far the truth really goes."

Bell nodded. "Even if it's dangerous?"

"Especially then."

They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them.

Then, gently, Bell reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

"You always smell like ink and something sweet."

She smiled. "That's probably the mossberries in my satchel."

"I like it."

She looked at him.

"And you smell like sweat and golden-boy delusions."

Bell laughed, low and warm. "You still like it?"

"…Maybe."

He didn't kiss her.

But he almost did.

And she didn't pull away.

Behind them, Cid snored so loudly it could be considered a war crime.

Seria exhaled. "You think he does that on purpose?"

"Absolutely."

Later that night, after they'd eaten, after Bell had fallen asleep with his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword, Seria stayed up, flipping through her notes.

She paused on one page — burned on the edges, the ink rushed and shaking.

A name. A serpent drawn in coiled flame. A single note beside it:

Voice bound in stone. Flame buried in blood.

Her finger traced a single word beneath the drawing.

Evelyne.

"Who were you?" she whispered. "Why are you still echoing?"

Elsewhere in the Red Pines, in a part of the forest where no fire had ever burned, something shifted.

The moss moved. The undergrowth quivered — not from wind, but from awareness.

A figure stood.

Not breathing.Not moving.Just listening.

The name had been spoken again.

And it would be remembered.

In the morning, the glade felt colder. The moss clung to their boots like memory. The air felt thick, and every breath tasted faintly of metal.

Bell mounted first, eyes fixed on the trail ahead.

"There's a fork coming up," he said. "North leads to the ruined city of Mirenth. South goes toward the quiet marshes."

Seria didn't hesitate. "Mirenth. It has records."

Cid groaned, already regretting the choice. "It also has skeletons that get very offended when you read those records."

"Then we'll be careful," Bell said.

But in the back of his mind, Seria's journal whispered:

A voice bound in stone. A flame buried in blood.

He didn't know why it haunted him.

But he knew it mattered.

And the forest was still watching.