Echoes at the Edge
At the fractured edge of the known universe—where stars falter and time forgets itself—a castle rose from the void like a wound stitched from false light. Its towers twisted in architectural lies, every wall a shifting façade, draped in the silence of dying realms. Shadows swam through the fog-choked air, heavy with memories not yet lived.
Within the highest chamber, a great circular hall spun slowly in place, suspended in the dead orbit of broken moons. Three figures sat upon thrones hewn from forgotten material—substance both real and metaphor. The chamber pulsed with echoes, not sound, but memory.
The one called **Architect** stood at the center. His face flickered, never the same twice—sometimes youthful, sometimes wrinkled, sometimes featureless. He turned, arms clasped behind his back, gazing into the smoke-shaped mural of souls.
"They have endured every fracture I designed," he murmured, each word like a clockhand ticking. "Loss. Fire. Betrayal. Hunger. Hope twisted and hope lost again. And still, they rise. These are the ones worth forging."
The first figure, cloaked in a mantle of broken blades—**Vaerin, the Reluctant Warden**—shifted forward, voice gravel-smooth.
"You could have *chosen* them without shattering them first. Why test them with cruelty when purpose could be freely given?"
The Architect smiled, a crescent of cold moons. "Because forged steel must feel the hammer. You only know a soul's truth when you see what remains under unbearable pressure. Their trauma is their tempering."
From the third throne, **Nyssra, the Weeping Flame**, stirred. Her voice came like wind through hollow bone.
"But at what cost? The gods are dead. Those left behind are corrupted by the Primordials. Even stars forget their names. How do you expect these scarred mortals to stand against such ancient rot?"
The Architect's gaze burned now, glinting with something neither light nor flame. "Let them discover it themselves. That is the final test."
As if in answer, the mural behind him—etched from echoes—rippled. A scene played: a child reaching out to a dying beast, a soldier cradling an enemy, a scientist dreaming beneath a crumbling sky. Three souls touched by fire, unknowingly chosen.
Vaerin leaned forward. "And if they fail?"
The Architect walked into the mural itself. His form dissolved, one fragment at a time, until only his voice remained, coiled in the mist like a serpent of time.
"Then we deserve what comes next."
Silence. Then—
Cracks appeared across the ceiling of the void-castle. Through them leaked light. Not warm. Not safe. But *aware.*
Nyssra stood, tears of flame trailing down her porcelain cheeks. "He's set the end in motion. The Fracture... it's awakening."
Vaerin rose beside her, drawing his broken blade. "Then we must find the mortals first. Before *they* do."
Behind them, the mural twisted once more—showing three flickering lights in the dark.
Each burned with a different rhythm.
Each unaware of the fate carved into their veins.
The chamber began to collapse.
To be continued...