Before dawn's first sigh, Averith and Roukhal slipped away from the Ember District's charred remains and wound toward the Mist District—Dystyx's section shrouded in perpetual fog. Here, the streets were slick with dew, lantern light diffused through swirling vapors, and every shadow trembled with secrets. Roofs arched like bent spines, and narrow alleys opened onto courtyards veiled in ghost-white mist. The Echo of Betrayal they sought lay hidden in the abandoned Water Temple at the district's heart.
Averith's violet flames were dimmed by the damp air; she kept her hand close to Roukhal's spear for reassurance. "This fog does more than hide," she whispered. "It confuses the mind."
Roukhal's golden eye shimmered beneath his bone mask. "Mist Wardens patrol here—soldiers trained in illusion and subterfuge. They will try to turn us against each other." He paused beneath a stone arch engraved with weeping lotus motifs. "Trust nothing you see."
They pressed on, footsteps muffled by wet cobblestones. From the haze emerged a figure in fog-gray robes, face concealed beneath a mask of swirling vapor. A silent warning: the first Mist Warden.
Before they could react, the robed figure spoke—voice like wind through reeds. "Turn back, trespassers. The water speaks only to the pure."
Averith's pulse quickened. She stepped forward, violet flame flickering in her palm. "We come not for water's blessing, but to claim the Echo," she declared.
The Warden chuckled—a hollow, drifting sound. With a gesture, tendrils of mist coalesced into phantom shapes: memories from Averith's past, twisted into doubts. She saw herself alone as a child, her fire out of control, burning helpless villagers. The vision spoke: "You'll only bring ruin."
Averith staggered, heart pounding. Roukhal caught her arm. "Ignore the lies," he urged. "Focus on our purpose."
He jabbed his spear into the stone underfoot. A burst of shattered mist scattered the phantoms, and the Warden recoiled. Averith drew a steady breath, extinguished her flame and let Roukhal guide her past the illusionist.
They reached the water-stained doors of the temple—tall, arched slabs veined with aquamarine. Roukhal pressed a gauntleted hand to the carvings: waves cresting against lotus petals. The doors swung open to reveal a vast hall, its floor a shallow pool reflecting candlelight from sconces set high in the walls.
At the hall's center, on a dais of polished riverstone, sat the second Echo: a crystalline vial half-filled with water that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Around it knelt five cloaked acolytes, each head bowed toward the pool and chanting in a sing-song lilt that wove through the air like silk threads.
Averith's lips parted. "They're binding the Echo's voice to their sorrow."
Roukhal nodded. "We must break their focus."
They stepped into the water. It was icy, but Averith's firegeist surged, keeping her warm. The chanting hush fell as the acolytes noticed their approach. With a cry, one hurled a vial of scented liquid into the pool. The surface erupted in swirling iridescence, and the water's reflection shifted: they saw alternate versions of themselves—Roukhal as a tyrant, Averith as a monster.
"Your true selves will drown here!" the acolyte intoned.
Averith closed her eyes, drawing on Roukhal's steadying presence. She whispered, "I am the healer. I am the protector." Her violet flame flared outward, slicing through the hall's reflection magic. The water stilled, and the phantoms dissolved.
Roukhal lunged forward, jabbing his spear into the dais. The impact cracked the stone, and the acolytes cried out as chains of water—raised by their own magic—collapsed around them. He yanked free the crystalline vial and handed it to Averith.
The moment her fingers closed around the Echo, the hall trembled with a mournful sigh. A voice—soft, mournful, unmistakably hers—whispered truths she had long buried:
"All your kindness could not save the innocent… your fire took more than it gave…"
Averith's breath caught, tears pricking her eyes. Roukhal's grip on her shoulder steadied her. "You are not your fear," he said firmly. "Let the Echo strengthen you."
She inhaled, focusing on the trust between them. A violet pulse radiated from the vial, harmonizing with the obsidian talisman at her chest. The Whispering Echo stilled, and the vial's water solidified into a single droplet that glowed brightly.
Roukhal retrieved a second talisman from his cloak. With a sharp twist, he placed it into the pool's water-carved slot beside the dais. The chamber hummed as the Crystal Vial ascended, merging its light with the second talisman. A radiant shard floated free—another Echo purified.
Clutching both the shard and the talisman, Averith stepped back onto dry stone. The chanting had ceased, and the acolytes lay unconscious, freed from Velkyrion's influence.
"They will awaken without their burden," Averith said, voice steady. She met Roukhal's gaze. "We did it."
He offered his hand, and she took it gratefully. "Two down," he murmured. "Five more to go."
As they exited the temple, mist swirled around them, but the shards' light cut through the fog like dawn's first blade. In the hazy streets of the Mist District, two souls bound by trust carried the weight of vengeance—and the promise of power—to rejoin their king.
Above them, distant thunder rolled once more, as if marking their small triumph in the endless war to come.