The portal opened not with a blaze or a roar, but a gentle shimmer—like the glint of sunlight over still water. The heat of Khar'Thalen melted away behind them, replaced by a crisp breeze that carried the scent of dew, lilac, and earth. Aria stepped through first.
And her knees buckled.
Not from exhaustion or pain, but from something deeper. Something that reached into the marrow of her bones—the aching pull of memory.
**Tenria.**
The realm of her birth.
The wind whispered through trees that arched toward the sky like cathedral pillars, their leaves a pale silver-green that shimmered in waves. Rolling hills dipped into valleys strewn with wildflowers, and quiet lakes mirrored the sky with crystalline perfection. The land looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Aria's heart pounded.
"I remember this," she whispered.
Lyrien stepped beside her, his eyes scanning the horizon. "It's beautiful."
Arinthal remained silent, her expression unreadable. "It was once more than beautiful. It was thriving."
They descended a hill, walking along a cobblestone path overtaken by roots and moss. Crumbled walls poked from the earth like broken ribs—remnants of once-proud villages.
"I was born here?" Aria asked softly, running her hand along a cracked stone bearing an old crest—two wings folded over a flame.
Arinthal nodded. "Your mother brought you here in secret. Few knew she still walked this realm. She was a daughter of Tenria, just as you are."
Lyrien crouched near a withered bush, brushing his fingers across a small, blue flower struggling to bloom. "What happened?"
Arinthal's voice dropped. "Xandros didn't send a minion here. He came himself."
Aria turned sharply. "He *came* here?"
Arinthal looked across the plains. "To break your mother. He failed. But he left the realm… shattered. Since then, the land hasn't healed. And now, something stirs again."
They walked in silence, each step deeper into memory and ruin.
As the sun began to set, they reached a village that hadn't completely fallen apart—wooden homes with crooked chimneys, tattered cloth signs hanging in the wind. Children's toys lay forgotten on porches. The air was thick with absence.
Then they heard it.
A chime. Delicate. Faint.
And a child's laughter.
They froze.
"Wait," Aria said, stepping forward. "I know that sound."
She walked toward the largest house, the source of the chime. Its door was slightly ajar. Inside, dust danced in golden rays of sunlight. A cradle sat in the corner, untouched for years. A faded blanket rested inside—embroidered with her name.
A-R-I-A.
Her legs gave out again. She fell to her knees, trembling.
"This was… this was my house."
Lyrien knelt beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'm here."
She didn't speak for a moment. Just looked around, the quiet of her lost home wrapping around her like fog. "My mother must've lived here before she disappeared. She… she must've loved this place."
"She did," Arinthal said, her voice breaking the quiet. "She was proud of Tenria. She believed it would rise again."
A noise.
A distant rustle—then a whisper. Not words, but a *feeling.* Cold. Cruel.
The shadows stretched unnaturally across the ground.
"Something's here," Arinthal said, her voice sharp.
The sky darkened in an instant. The warmth of the realm evaporated. Aria stepped outside—**and froze.**
In the center of the village stood a figure cloaked in bone-white armor, its eyes two black voids swirling with red mist. It didn't move like a person—it hovered, still and silent, exuding dread.
Arinthal gasped. "No..."
Lyrien drew his blades. "What is that?"
"A Shadebinder," she whispered. "One of Xandros's *true* minions."
The Shadebinder raised a hand—and the mark on Aria's palm ignited in pain. She screamed, falling to the ground, clutching her hand. The Echo fragments she'd gathered glowed dimly in response, flickering like dying candles.
"She's the key," the Shadebinder said, its voice like two stones grinding together. "Break her. And the Echo shatters."
Lyrien leapt forward with a cry, his swords slashing at the entity—but the Shadebinder melted into shadow, reforming behind him. Arinthal summoned protective wards, spheres of blue light that held for a moment before cracking under the shade's pressure.
Aria forced herself to her feet. Her vision swam. Her hand throbbed.
"Stop running," she hissed. "I'm done running."
She summoned the second stage of her power—her inner energy roaring like a tide. Her aura flared silver and violet, forming a barrier between her and the Shadebinder.
The Shade lunged.
And Aria met it.
She called on her training in the Void, on every whisper of power Arinthal had taught her, every lesson forged in sweat and silence. She didn't think—she *flowed*. Her movements became instinct. Breath. Flame. Echo.
The clash shook the air.
Every strike from the Shadebinder sapped the light. Every counter from Aria drew it back. She didn't try to defeat it—just to *hold it*. To protect her home. Her friends.
Behind her, Arinthal poured her magic into the Echo fragments. Lyrien covered her, blades moving like wind.
"We're with you, Aria!" he shouted.
Her palm burned—but the mark flared with a new light. Her connection to Tenria, to her mother, to the Echoes—all of it pulsed as one.
Then she understood.
The Echo in Tenria wasn't in the land or buried in stone—it was *in her.*
**She was the fragment.**
She focused everything into her mark, letting it radiate. Her aura exploded outward like a starburst, slamming into the Shadebinder.
It screamed, cracking apart at the edges, its form unraveling into smoke and shards of light.
When the dust settled, silence fell again.
The village was still. And peaceful.
The sky lightened.
Aria sank to her knees, gasping for breath.
Lyrien caught her. "You did it."
"No," she whispered, "we did."
Arinthal approached slowly, eyes wide with awe. "Tenria has accepted you."
Aria looked at the cradle once more, her eyes soft. "Then I'll accept it back. I'll fight for it."
The mark on her palm had changed again. A new symbol glowed faintly in its center—**a sun over wings.** The symbol of Tenria.
Later that night, they lit a fire in the middle of the village. Aria sat quietly, staring into the flames. Lyrien sat next to her.
"This place matters to you," he said gently.
"It's a part of me," she replied. "And I think… I'm starting to understand who I really am."
He smiled. "I think I'm starting to understand, too."
Their hands brushed. Not intentionally. But neither of them pulled away.
Above them, the stars over Tenria twinkled—unchanged, unbroken.
The portal shimmered again, waiting for them…..
- - -