—
The sky was a bruise. Clouds rolled like ash above the rebel camp, swollen with the kind of pressure that made your bones ache before the first drop of rain ever fell. The fires were kept low tonight. Even the wind felt cautious.
Valen Creed stood at the center of a chalk-drawn circle, his black eyes steady but tired. His shirt was stripped to the waist, exposing the old burn marks across his chest—marks from the day the Rift opened, the day the world cracked and bled.
Now, thirteen people stood around him, each holding a fragment of red crystal, humming softly. Ritual stones. Lira had called them "Blood Echo anchors." He called them a gamble.
"You sure about this?" Kira asked, arms folded, voice sharp even in the quiet.
Valen nodded once. "If there's even a chance this can dull the Mark… I have to try."
The Mark of Extinction was glowing again, pulsing with a sick red light from his forearm. Like a brand burned into his flesh. A target. A curse. And lately, it had begun to itch beneath his skin—like something beneath the surface was moving.
Lira stepped forward. Her hands trembled slightly as she took position. "Once we start, you can't leave the circle. No matter what it shows you. No matter what you hear."
Valen didn't respond. He already knew.
They began.
The humming grew louder, the voices blending into something ancient and discordant. The crystals pulsed in sync with the Mark on Valen's arm, and suddenly the wind stopped completely. The world held its breath.
Then came the pain.
It wasn't physical at first. It was a sound—sharp, shrill, buried in his skull. A whisper that wasn't in words but intent. Something old. Something awake.
He dropped to one knee. His Echo flared out from him instinctively, black smoke and shimmering shadow. The markings on his skin crawled.
The crystals cracked. One by one.
"No—" Lira gasped, trying to stabilize the field.
But it was too late.
The ritual didn't cleanse the corruption. It fed it.
Black tendrils erupted from the center of Valen's chest, spiraling like broken wings. The ground beneath the circle cracked with a metallic snap. Shadows pulsed outward in waves. The rebels staggered back.
Then Valen screamed.
But it wasn't just his voice.
There was another one layered beneath it—deeper, colder. Like a second voice echoing from inside his lungs. Something had awakened.
The shadows coiled around his arms, solidifying into armor-like veins. His left eye flashed a different color—a deep crimson for a second—and the Mark twisted like it was alive.
He stood.
And the world felt wrong.
"Valen?" Lira stepped toward him, cautiously.
He turned, and for a moment, his eyes didn't recognize her.
"You shouldn't have done this," he said.
His voice wasn't his.
The others raised weapons, but Valen held up a hand. A pulse of his Echo erupted, not violent—but precise. Controlled. His powers had… shifted. Everything was sharper. Faster. There was a weight behind his senses now—an awareness of something deeper inside him.
The thing that had spoken was still there. It didn't have a name. But he felt it now, coiled like a serpent in his ribcage.
You cracked the door, it whispered. And now you hear me.
"What are you?" Valen whispered under his breath.
A fragment. A scar left behind by the end. And you… you are the vessel.
He stumbled backward, grabbing his head. He wasn't losing control—but he was sharing space.
Kira rushed forward, shoving the others back. "Valen, are you still you?"
"Yes," he said. But his voice shook. "But something… came through."
Lira was pale. "The ritual was meant to cleanse the Echo. Not… mutate it."
Valen clenched his fists. The veins of black that pulsed along his arms were still fading. "It didn't mutate it. It evolved."
The rebel camp was silent for a long time. Then one of the younger scouts, a wiry kid named Tann, spoke.
"You can still fight, right?"
Valen looked up. "I can fight better now."
He turned toward the cracked earth, the broken ritual circle.
"But this thing inside me… It's not gone."
—
That night, Valen didn't sleep. The voice inside him didn't scream or whisper anymore—it just lingered. Waiting. Watching. Occasionally, he caught thoughts that weren't his. Glimpses of shadows moving behind walls that didn't exist. Emotions with no trigger. A strange empathy toward destruction itself.
He stood at the edge of the old city ruins, staring at the distance.
Lira joined him, wrapped in a weather-worn jacket, silent for a while.
"You scared everyone today," she said quietly.
"I scared myself," Valen replied.
"But you didn't lose control."
"No." He touched the Mark on his arm. It had changed shape. Sharper now, less like a curse and more like a sigil. "I think it knows I won't run anymore."
Lira glanced at him. "So what now?"
He took a long breath.
"Now we figure out what this new version of me can do. Before the Riftborn do."
Lightning cracked far in the distance.
And the war, ever-patient, kept drawing closer.