The night air in Vaelmir was heavy, humming faintly with unseen energy.
None of them truly slept. The reflections they had seen still lingered behind their eyes — warped possibilities that refused to fade.
When dawn came, pale and sickly, Eryndor rose first. He stood at the edge of the ruined square, staring toward the shattered towers. The voice pulsed softly within him, a heartbeat of power that wouldn’t be quiet.
“You feel it too,” Eira whispered in his mind. “There’s something below the Hall. Something that remembers.”
Eryndor’s hand brushed the mark on his wrist. What is it?
“The core of the Reflection — a vault where truth was stored. The Eldridians built it to keep the Voice’s memory hidden from those who weren’t ready to bear it.”
He turned back to the campfire. “We’re not do
