The wind howled like a living thing.
Ayla stepped through the jagged archway of shattered stone, her boots crunching on the frostbitten gravel beneath. Halwen—the Ruined Kingdom of Echoes—unfolded before her like a dream shattered on the anvil of time. Buildings leaned at odd angles, half-swallowed by earth and vines. The air reeked of old ash and cold iron, and beneath it all… something deeper. A hum, not of sound, but of thought.
They had arrived.
Varra stood beside her, sword drawn but lowered. Her eyes, ever alert, scanned the crumbling city walls as if expecting the ruins to breathe.
"The Rift touched this place early," the Watcher said, stepping through the arch behind them. His voice was quieter than usual, reverent. "It didn't break Halwen. It… remembered it."
Ayla's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
He tapped his staff against the moss-covered cobblestone. "Halwen was a kingdom of memory. Its magic ran on remembrance. Its walls stored the thoughts of the dying. Even its shadows… remember what was."
She felt it then—a ripple in her mind, as if unseen eyes studied her past.
The City That Remembers
As they entered deeper into Halwen, the city seemed to shift. Streets that had crumbled stood restored for a heartbeat, flickering into their old forms before crumbling again. A child's laugh echoed from nowhere. A woman's scream followed, faint and haunting.
"This place is... alive?" Ayla whispered.
"No," the Watcher said. "Worse. It is remembering. And it remembers too much."
They passed beneath a broken archway engraved with runes. Ayla brushed her fingers over one, and images poured into her mind—flashes of war, of lovers parting, of kings weeping in shadowed halls.
She gasped and pulled away.
"The runes are memory-stones," the Watcher murmured. "This city is filled with them. And somewhere within lies the Flame."
A Memory Within a Memory
They made camp in what was once a cathedral. Stained-glass windows still clung to shattered frames, their colors bleeding ghost-light over the marble floor. Ayla couldn't sleep.
As the others rested, she wandered into a side chamber—one untouched by time. A large basin sat at its center, filled with clear water that shimmered with silver light.
She leaned over it.
And the world vanished.
The First Trial
Ayla stood in a village she did not know. Yet every building, every face was familiar. A younger version of herself chased a boy through golden fields. Her parents watched from the porch of a home she'd never lived in.
"This isn't real," she whispered.
"No," said a voice behind her. "But it is truth."
She turned to see herself. Older. Wiser. Eyes filled with pain and fire. This other Ayla walked barefoot across the field, unburned by the Riftstorm brewing in the sky.
"The Flame tests who you were," she said. "But also who you could have been."
The sky cracked with lightning, and the village was torn in half. Ayla screamed as fire consumed her family, her friends, and the girl she might have been.
She awoke, breathless, on the cold cathedral floor.
Varra's Voice
Varra was kneeling beside her, eyes intense. "You touched the basin."
Ayla nodded, shivering.
"What did you see?"
"Everything I could have had… and everything I've lost."
Varra paused, then offered her a waterskin. "Good. The Flame will want more."
The Path of Echoes
They traveled deeper into Halwen the next day. The city had begun to shift more rapidly now, as if reacting to Ayla's presence. Memories played on every wall—soldiers kissing loved ones goodbye, a boy dropping his sword in terror, a woman singing as fire consumed her home.
And Ayla began to hear voices—her own, from moments she had never lived. Whispering. Mocking.
"She ran," one voice said.
"She let them die," said another.
"She will never be enough."
She dropped to her knees, clutching her head.
"Ignore it," the Watcher said. "These are not your memories. They are temptations. The city feeds on weakness."
"But they feel real."
"That's because they could have been."
The Door of Names
At the city's heart stood a towering gate, carved entirely of bone-white marble. No handle, no lock. Just names—thousands, etched across its surface in spirals.
Ayla's hand moved to touch one, and her blood ran cold.
It was her name.
"What… is this?" she whispered.
"The Door of Names," the Watcher said. "Only those who accept every version of themselves—past, future, real and imagined—can pass."
Varra placed a hand on Ayla's shoulder. "This is your trial. We can go no further."
Ayla stared at the gate. The names shimmered, each one a version of her: Ayla the Coward. Ayla the Queen. Ayla the Betrayer. Ayla the Flame.
She took a deep breath… and stepped forward.
The Door opened without a sound.
Not a creak, not a whisper. As Ayla stepped through, the marble dissolved into light—warm, golden, pulsing with the beat of her own heart. She walked into the glow, and the world behind her faded.
No stone. No ruins. Only a plain of stars.
She stood on nothing, and everything. Beneath her feet, stars swirled like sand, whispering fragments of thoughts long dead.
"She was supposed to die in the fire."
"We were never enough."
"Why did you leave us, Ayla?"
She spun—voices, memories, ghosts. A dozen versions of herself surrounded her now. Some were strong. Some broken. Some twisted. One wept. One laughed. One held a blade with a smile so cruel it chilled her.
"You are all… me?" she asked.
They nodded, together.
"We are your could-have-beens," said the one in golden armor.
"We are the never-weres," said the scarred one, clutching a child's corpse.
"And I," said the one in shadow, "am who you fear you are becoming."
The Trial of Memory
Ayla's chest tightened. "I didn't choose this. I didn't ask for any of this."
The golden Ayla stepped forward. "Neither did we. Yet here we stand."
The scarred Ayla raised her hand. "To claim the Flame, you must face us."
Suddenly, the plain shook. The stars turned red. And the avatars of herself moved as one.
They attacked.
Ayla barely had time to summon her shield of will—instinct more than spell. The blast struck her full in the chest and sent her flying backward into the void.
Another version leapt at her—a version of herself that had chosen vengeance instead of mercy. The eyes were hollow. The magic, corrupted.
Ayla shouted a wordless defiance and countered, summoning light from her memories—her true memories.
The night in the library with Master Kael. The warmth of a shared fire with Varra. The way the Watcher's eyes had lit up when she understood the glyph puzzle.
She clung to them, let them wrap her in light, and the corrupted Ayla vanished in a scream.
One down.
The Core of Who She Was
More came.
Each a test of a memory, a truth, a fear:
Ayla the Coward, who had run instead of fighting when the Sanctuary fell.
Ayla the Tyrant, who took power and crushed her enemies without mercy.
Ayla the Martyr, who sacrificed everyone for one final spell.
Each fought her. Each broke something inside her. Until Ayla knelt, weeping, surrounded by her broken selves.
Then came the Child.
Small. Wide-eyed. Holding a single candle.
"Why do you hate me?" the Child asked.
Ayla stared. "I don't."
"You left me in the fire."
"I couldn't save you," she said.
"You didn't try."
The candle flickered. Ayla reached forward, hand trembling, and touched the flame.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
And the child smiled.
The Flame Revealed
The world went still.
From the child's candle, fire burst—not wild and destructive, but warm, golden, deep with memory.
It flowed around Ayla, lifting her from the ground, burning through every false memory, every doubt. The other selves faded. The plain of stars collapsed into a single glowing spark.
And from that spark, a flame hovered before her.
No bigger than her palm. No heavier than a breath.
The Flame of Memory.
It pulsed once, and Ayla's mind opened.
She remembered everything. Not just her life—but lives she never lived, decisions she never made, losses she never understood.
And she accepted them all.
With trembling hands, she reached out… and took the flame.
Return
The cathedral reformed around her.
She stood, flame in hand, heart pounding, tears on her face.
Varra looked up, stunned. "You were gone for hours."
Ayla's voice came softly. "It felt like years."
The Watcher bowed his head. "You carry it now. The first flame. But beware—it will change you."
Ayla looked into the flame. It showed her the past. Not just hers—but the world's.
And in that moment, she saw something—a vision of the second flame, far beyond the eastern horizon.
The journey was far from over.
But for now… she had conquered her first self.