Chapter 18: The Silver Pulse Unleashed

The thaw had barely begun when the first whispers arrived.

A patrol vanished along the Frostveil ridge. A merchant caravan found with no wounds, yet lifeless, their blood strangely pale. Then came the symbols—painted in ash and crimson—etched onto stone cairns outside villages.

A name returned to the wind.

Crimson Echo.

“They’re not just survivors,” Theo said grimly, eyes scanning the report. “They’re organized.”

Freya stood by the arched window, her fingers tracing the frost-etched stone. “Garrick’s disciples?”

“Or worse. New believers,” Theo replied. “Twisting what we bled to stop.”

Freya exhaled. “Then we go back into the dark.”

---

The hideout was buried deep beneath the scorched remains of a mountain shrine. Freya went alone—no insignia, no fanfare—cloaked in dirt-streaked leathers and an old servant's accent.

Inside, Crimson Echo held court around crude altars lined with vials—some half-filled with diluted Silver Blood.

She watched from shadow, listening.