Orien stepped into the mist, each footfall muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The forest swallowed him without a sound, branches arching overhead like the ribs of a great beast. Pale light filtered through the canopy, cold and distant. There was no wind. No birds. No movement at all—save for the gentle curl of the mist that clung to his boots.
The stone in his hand pulsed softly. Its glow lit the path a few feet ahead, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with each step. He gripped it tightly, unsure if it offered guidance, protection, or neither. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that smelled of forgotten things.
The silence was wrong. Too complete.
Then—
"Orien."
He froze. The voice had come from behind him.
"Lira?" he called, spinning around.
Nothing. Just trees and mist.
He waited, heart hammering.
"Orien... help me."
His breath caught. That was Lira's voice—no question. Faint, desperate, and echoing as though called through a cave. He turned in a slow circle, trying to find the direction.
"Where are you?!" he shouted.
Silence.
Then the whisper returned—this time from his left.
"Why did you leave me...?"
He ran.
Branches clawed at his arms, leaves tore past his cheeks. He ducked low, following the sound, pushing deeper into the forest. The mist thickened, clinging to his skin like sweat.
He burst into a clearing and stopped short.
Lira stood in the center, arms at her sides, staring blankly at him.
"Lira!" he cried, rushing forward.
She didn't move.
As he drew close, he saw something was wrong. Her eyes were empty—glassy and silver like frozen moonlight. Her skin, pale and smooth, shimmered like mist. She smiled slowly.
"You left me."
"I didn't! I—"
Her form flickered. For an instant, her face became something else. Twisted. Hollow. Then back again.
Orien stumbled backward.
Another Lira stepped from the trees.
Then another.
Then a fourth.
They circled him, identical copies, each murmuring in her voice.
"You let me die."
"You chose the stone."
"You never cared."
Orien shouted, "You're not real!"
The stone in his hand blazed suddenly, casting bright white light over the clearing. The figures hissed, staggering back as smoke curled from their limbs. One screamed, its voice warping into a monstrous wail, and the illusions vanished into mist.
Orien collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The stone cooled.
A new voice spoke—soft, deep, not his own.
"You have passed the Gate of Memory. Few do."
Orien looked up. A tall figure stood beyond the edge of the clearing. Cloaked in grey, face hidden beneath a hood stitched with golden thread. He held a staff made of twisted roots, its top burning with blue fire.
"Who are you?" Orien asked.
"I am the Keeper. I watch the Forest of Echoes."
"Is this… the Trial?"
"One of many. The forest tests your past, your guilt, your attachments. If you believe the lies it whispers, you remain here forever—another echo, lost to time."
"I saw my friend…"
"You saw your fear. But you did not fall."
The Keeper stepped closer, and the mist parted before him.
"You seek truth," he said. "Then walk with me."
---
They traveled in silence for a time. The path shifted beneath their feet, curving when it should have been straight, splitting into forks that mended themselves as they passed. The forest was alive—not in the way of trees and animals, but with memory. Faces flickered between branches, whispers curled through the air. But with the Keeper beside him, the forest did not touch Orien again.
"You are marked," the Keeper said after a while.
Orien looked at the stone. "By this?"
"Not the stone. By fate. It clings to you like smoke."
"Then what is the stone?"
"A guide. A key. A burden."
"That's not an answer."
The Keeper chuckled. "Few answers are."
They reached a glade where the trees bent inward, forming a circle of arching limbs. In the center stood a monolith of black stone, etched with glowing runes.
"This," the Keeper said, "is where you face the Echo."
Orien frowned. "Wasn't that the trial? The Lira illusions?"
"No," the Keeper said. "That was the gate. The Trial is now."
The runes on the stone shimmered, and the glade darkened. The mist coiled in, thick and cold. Orien stepped toward the monolith.
He touched it.
---
In an instant, the world shattered.
He stood in the village again—but not as it had been. The buildings were ruined, flames licking at their bones. The sky bled orange and red, and the air was filled with screams.
He ran through the wreckage, searching.
He found Lira, collapsed by the riverbank, unmoving.
"No…" he whispered, cradling her.
Footsteps approached. A figure in black robes, face hidden, eyes glowing like coals.
"You let them die, Orien Vale," the figure said. "All of them. Because you accepted the stone."
Orien looked up, tears in his eyes.
"I didn't want this."
"Then why take it?"
"I didn't choose!" he shouted.
The figure leaned down. "But you did. You always will."
Orien stood. "Who are you?"
The figure pulled back its hood.
It was him.
An older Orien. Face lined with sorrow. Eyes hollow. A scar across his left brow.
"You are me," he said, voice trembling.
The Echo-Orien nodded. "If you fail. If you give in. If you forget who you are."
"I won't."
The Echo drew a blade. "Prove it."
They fought. Blade against blade—his weapon summoned by the light of the stone. Sparks flew. Grass burned. Shadows danced.
Orien fought not with skill, but with heart. Every time he faltered, he remembered Lira's smile. The smell of his home. The quiet mornings.
Finally, he disarmed the Echo and stood over him.
"Do it," the Echo said.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I won't become you."
Light exploded from the monolith. The Echo vanished.
Orien opened his eyes.
---
He lay in the glade, chest heaving. The Keeper stood nearby, watching.
"You have passed the First Trial," he said.
Orien sat up slowly.
"That was only one?"
"There are ninety-nine more."
Orien groaned. "Wonderful."
The Keeper extended a hand. In his palm was a crystal shard, shaped like a feather, glowing faintly.
"Each trial gives a token," he said. "Collect them all, and the path to the Hundredth will open."
Orien took the shard. It pulsed in rhythm with the stone.
"Where do I go now?" he asked.
"Follow the river. When the water sings, listen. When it weeps, run."
The forest began to dissolve—trees fading to mist, path stretching outward like a ribbon of silver.
"Go, Orien Vale," the Keeper said. "The trials have only just begun."
And Orien walked forward, into whatever came next.
---