The old paths were not meant for travel—not anymore.
Once, hunters from Isenhold had carved these trails to reach the outer glades and smoke dens where lesser beasts bred. Before the Guilds. Before the Wards. Before the echoes of Oldspawn were more than stories.
Now, the trees leaned closer, as though eavesdropping. Lichen coated the stone markers. The very roots beneath Evelyn's boots felt… taut, like tendons waiting to snap.
Torren moved like a shadow beside her. His sword was drawn and soot-lined, an edge dulled by too many clashes in too few days. His eyes darted—watching, always watching.
"Southwest bend's ahead," he whispered. "There's a hollow just past the ridge. My father used to say it was where bad spirits were swallowed."
Evelyn arched an eyebrow. "Cheerful."
"It's that or backtrack through open ground. I'll take swallowed."
They pressed on. The ridgeline crested with a curtain of mist, thick with spore-drift and the earthy stink of something long-buried. Moss slicked the stone. The silence grew heavier.
No birds. No insects. No sound beyond the squelch of boots and the breath they tried not to make too loud.
And then Evelyn felt it—beneath her feet, a pull. Not gravity. Not magic.
Memory.
She froze. Her pulse thudded like a hammer against her ribs.
"What is it?" Torren asked, voice tight.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she stepped off the trail, pushing aside the brush until she saw it:
A stone slab, half-consumed by roots, carved with glyphs she recognized—not from the Guild, not from her mother's scrolls, but from her dreams. Inverted spirals. A split sun. The word for "echo," written backward.
She knelt, tracing the edge.
"Evelyn," Torren warned. "I don't like this."
"I've seen this before," she murmured. "In my sleep. The woman with silver eyes stood here."
The glyphs flared faintly—then shivered, the stone beneath her hand vibrating as though some deep engine had stirred.
And then—a sound.
Low. Rumbling. Like a beast breathing from beneath the earth.
Cracks split the slab. A seam opened. Dust spilled, followed by heat and a hiss of air that smelled of metal and old blood.
Torren grabbed her arm. "We need to go. Now."
But Evelyn couldn't move.
In the hollow beneath the slab, something moved. Not fast. Not hungry.
Curious.
It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. And in that moment, she understood:
This place had been sealed, not to imprison something—but to preserve it.
And whatever stirred beneath the stone knew her name.
She whispered it aloud, not knowing why.
"Evelyn."
The heat responded, blooming like coal fire behind her heart.
Torren cursed. "Something's coming—uphill."
They ran. Not back to the path, but deeper—around the ridge's edge, down toward the fenline where the mists thickened.
Behind them, the slab cracked wide with a sound like stone screaming.
And for the first time since Isenhold fell, the wind began to sing.