The morning air in the Vale of Echoes shimmered faintly, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the crystal stream, watching his reflection ripple and distort. For the first time since his return, he felt different — heavier, yet sharper, as though the Voice within him had fused with something wild and ancient.
He dipped his hand into the cool water. It tingled — alive, charged with a faint current of light. But when he lifted his fingers, the droplets turned dark for a split second before falling back into the stream.
The balance was off. Even the water could feel it.
Behind him, Lyra approached silently, her boots brushing over moss. “You’ve been out here since dawn,” she said, her tone gentle but steady. “You haven’t slept.”
Eryndor didn’t look
