The western winds were cruel.
They weren't cold. Not in the traditional sense. But they **sank into the skin**, dragging with them whispers—half-heard words, the echoes of regrets, curses spoken long after death. The kind of wind that gnawed at the soul, not the flesh.
Kye stood at the edge of a canyon known on imperial maps as *Thress-Kar Ravine.*
Locals didn't call it that.
They called it the **Whispering Valley**.
Velden's map showed a thin, winding trail through the valley leading west, past ruined watchtowers and the remnants of an old trade road. It was the fastest path to the ruined frontier village where Maerin had last been rumored.
But no War Mage, even the bold ones, went through Whispering Valley.
Not twice.
Kye adjusted his cloak, pulled the hood low over his head, and stepped forward.
The shadows swallowed him whole.
---
The first hour was uneventful.
Cracked stone, dust, dead trees. The occasional vulture wheeling overhead. Kye moved carefully, eyes scanning every rock formation, every ridge. The Witchfire inside him remained stable—quiet.
But the further in he walked, the **quieter** everything became.
No wind.
No birds.
Not even the sound of his boots crunching gravel.
He stopped.
Even his breathing sounded **wrong**—like it was coming from someone else's mouth.
He looked back.
The trail was gone.
Not *obscured*.
Gone.
Behind him was nothing but open canyon. Flat. Unbroken. As if the road had never existed.
And then—
> "You never deserved his mercy."
The voice came from the left.
Low. Familiar.
Kye spun.
Nothing there.
> "You're not his heir. You're his mistake."
Another voice. From behind.
He drew his blade, eyes wide, Witchfire leaking from his skin now, flickering like heat off glass. Not enough to burn, but enough to **anchor** himself in reality.
He stepped forward.
And the **world changed.**
---
Suddenly, the canyon wasn't empty anymore.
It was full of **bodies**.
Soldiers in charred armor. Broken wagons. Burned banners fluttering in wind that no longer existed. The scent of blood soaked the earth.
Kye knew this scene.
He didn't remember it.
But **Kael did.**
> *"The Siege of Hollowmark."*
The name came unbidden.
The Witchfire surged in his chest. He gritted his teeth, eyes watering. This wasn't memory. It was **reconstruction**. Whispering Valley was pulling from the fragments of Kael's soul still embedded in him—forcing him to walk through the dead man's crimes.
He turned—
And saw **Kael**.
Standing in full regalia at the center of the battlefield.
Cloaked in flame. Sword in one hand. A little girl in the other, limp.
His voice was calm:
> "They wouldn't surrender. So I ended the war."
Kye stumbled backward.
"No…"
> "Don't look away," Kael said.
Kye fell to his knees.
And behind Kael—**Maerin appeared**.
But not like the rumors. Younger. Radiant. Hair braided with black feathers, eyes burning with judgment.
"You've become the monster they always feared," she told Kael.
And Kael just said:
> "That's what they needed me to be."
Then the world turned to ash again.
---
Kye gasped, clutching his head.
The illusion was gone.
The battlefield vanished.
But his hands were still shaking.
That hadn't been a hallucination.
It was a **message.**
A memory the Valley had ripped from Kael's soul and forced Kye to **own**.
He stood slowly.
Tears dried by the wind.
He kept walking.
---
He didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he found shelter beneath a stone overhang, half-collapsed from age. He didn't light a fire. The Witchfire in him flickered faintly in the dark, enough to keep the Valley's cold at bay.
The whispers never stopped.
They grew quieter. More personal.
Voices from his own life.
His mother's voice, telling him he'd never be enough.
His own voice, at ten years old, whispering to the moon that he wanted to disappear.
Kael's voice, screaming in a language he didn't know.
He clenched his fists.
He didn't cover his ears.
He **listened**.
Because truth—no matter how painful—was **armor**.
And Kye had run out of lies.
---
**By the second day**, the Valley shifted again.
He no longer saw illusions.
He saw **mirrors**.
Reflections of himself in every puddle, every shard of glass embedded in the rocks.
Each reflection looked slightly **wrong**.
Older.
Crueler.
Some smiled too wide.
One had **Kael's eyes**.
> "You'll end up like him," it said.
Kye stared at it.
"I'm not him."
> "No. But you're already burning like he did."
He shattered the reflection with a punch.
Blood dripped from his knuckles.
And still he walked.
---
Near dusk, the Valley opened into a clearing—unnaturally round.
In the center stood a single **stone archway**, partially crumbled.
Behind it: **a figure**.
Not a mirage. Not a ghost.
A man in a mask of cracked gold.
He wore a uniform without insignia.
Kye stopped twenty feet away.
The man bowed slightly.
"You've come far, Kye of the Witchfire."
Kye's hand dropped to his weapon. "Friend or foe?"
The man removed his mask.
His face was marked with old scars, a symbol burned into his throat.
The same **cracked crown wreathed in fire** Kye had seen in the Ash Circle's vision.
"Foe," the man said calmly.
"But not tonight."
Kye raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
The man smiled sadly.
"Because she's watching."
The wind changed.
Warm.
Soft.
And behind the arch—
**a woman's silhouette appeared.**
Flowing cloak.
Silver hair.
A staff that pulsed with breath, not magic.
Kye's breath caught.
Maerin.
Even from a distance, he felt the **pull**.
Like gravity had just discovered his name.
The masked man stepped aside.
"She said if you survived the Valley, you were worth speaking to."
Kye stepped forward.
Past the arch.
The man whispered as he passed:
> "Be careful. She burns deeper than Kael ever did."