The sound of leaves crunching underfoot blended with the faint whistle of wind cutting through the treetops. It was late afternoon, and the shadows of Sylvelin stretched long across the moss-covered ground strewn with dry twigs.
Maple walked with the caution of someone who knew they were out of place. His boots, stitched with cured leather strips and patched with scraps of cloth, were soaked. The mud was unforgiving, as was the cold. The cloak he wore, darkened by time and mended with mismatched threads, sheltered more than just his body: tied to it were small pouches holding runic charcoals, a faded leather scroll, and a map marked with symbols only he could decipher.
It had been three days since he left Tharnwood. In that time, he'd slept only two nights—one under the canopy of a hollow tree that shielded him from drizzle, and another in a shallow cave where the sound of bats stole his rest. He was hungry, exhausted, and irritable, but his eyes still held the spark Tilden had called "the hunger for the song."
The lute hung across his back, wrapped in cloth to protect it from the damp. Its handle was reinforced with small carved grooves—runes of stability and vibration—that Maple had etched himself after days of practice, copying patterns from Tilden's notebook. It was rudimentary, but it worked. When he plucked a tuned string, the entire wooden body resonated.
If this isn't a true echo… then what is? he thought.
The Sylvelin Forest was more than a green wilderness. It sang. The wind wove low notes through the high branches. Some tree trunks occasionally let out a long, weary moan, as if alive and tired. With every step, Maple paused briefly, crouched, listened, and mentally noted the distinct sounds. It was part of the training Tilden had taught him: to identify the "broken notes"—points where the natural harmony was disrupted.
It didn't take long to find one.
He was following a barely defined trail when he heard it. A rhythm. Unnatural. Metallic. Rigid. Something striking wood with intention.
Tang. Tang. Pause. Tang.
Maple crept through the foliage, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. The view opened to a small clearing, where a broad, gnarled tree stood, its base hosting a creature.
A Walking Monolith.
Made of living stone and moss, its eyes glowed with an amber light. Its form was vaguely humanoid, but its arms were heavy as sledgehammers. The creature struck the tree in a hypnotic cadence. And then, Maple saw it:
On the tree, small carvings glowed. Ancient runes. Faded in parts, but some still active. Each strike made one flicker briefly, emitting a nearly inaudible sonic pulse.
Maple's heart raced.
He crouched, pulling out his small notebook and a carving blade. With keen eyes, he began copying the most legible runic patterns. His hands trembled, but he didn't dare look away.
Then, a mistake.
A sharp snap. A twig under his foot.
The creature stopped. Its eyes turned slowly, the amber glow intensifying. The sound ceased.
"Oh… no…" Maple whispered.
The Monolith turned. And charged.
Maple barely had time to shove the notebook into his cloak before the creature was upon him. Its first hammer-like swing missed his head by inches, splintering branches and sending wet wood flying.
He rolled to the side and ran. No technique, no plan. Just instinct and desperation.
"Why did I get so close?!" he shouted, feeling the ground quake under his feet.
The creature was right behind him. Each step of the Monolith was a dull thud, a stone drum against the living forest floor. Maple dodged between trees, slipping, grabbing trunks, gasping for breath.
He remembered the necklace.
With trembling fingers, he yanked it from his neck. The rune was still there. Carved into willow wood, etched on the night Tilden died. He'd never understood its purpose. But now… he had to try.
He murmured a note. A low, guttural, almost instinctive sound. He blew across the rune.
It glowed.
The air around him warped. For a moment, everything fell silent. Even the sound of the chase stopped. Then came the recoil: a sharp crack, and Maple was thrown sideways by an invisible force. He tumbled down a leaf-covered slope, crashed against a rock, and landed gasping in a shallow streambed.
The Monolith lost sight of him.
Maple lay still, chest heaving, pain shooting through his ribs. He looked at the rune on the necklace. It was dark now. But it had worked.
I need to understand… that. That was…
Before he could finish the thought, something caught his attention.
A sound.
But not the same as before. It was soft, steady. A hum. A low tone that reverberated not in the air, but in his bones. He sat up slowly, groping around. And then he saw it:
A stone. Black. Covered in moss, but perfectly smooth on top. And it vibrated.
He approached. Ran his fingers over its surface. The sound deepened. More present. When he pressed his forehead to it, he heard:
"You hear, carver…"
Maple recoiled. The sound vanished.
Silence.
But the echo lingered in his chest. An echo of something far greater. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that this was only the beginning.
Maple stayed still for a few minutes, still panting. The cold stone against his back was uncomfortable, but less so than the persistent hum echoing in his bones, as if the sound had been swallowed within him. The stream flowed a few meters away, its water warm compared to the air settling into night.
With effort, he sat up. His ribs ached, a scratched arm bled slowly, but nothing seemed broken. Still, every muscle protested. He shed his wet cloak, squinted, and turned his body carefully. He had to return to the clearing… but not now.
If that thing had caught me head-on, I'd be part of the tree by now.
His gaze returned to the black stone. A slab of rock with a glass-smooth surface, partially wrapped in fine roots, thick moss, and small glowing blue fungi pulsing like tiny living lanterns. The vibration had stopped, but he could still feel it faintly under his palm.
Maple knelt before it, setting the lute aside, and ran his fingers over the surface with greater care.
"You hear, carver."
The words still pounded in his mind. They hadn't been spoken—they were felt. A soundless sound, an ancient call. As if something in this place recognized… something in him.
From his satchel, he pulled Tilden's old notebook. Its pages were stained and torn, but one in particular came to mind. A sketch of a similar structure, a stone with notes that read:
"Echo-stones. Unstable resonance. Do not touch directly during the song. They hold memories… or sonic ghosts. Test channeling."
Maple bit his lower lip. He had to try something. Even if rudimentary.
He pulled a dry woodchip from his bag, collected two days earlier. It had faint grains, was pliable yet firm. Perfect for experiments. He took out the small carving dagger—the same one Tilden had given him at the start—and began marking the wood's surface.
There was no rush. Time here seemed to slow. Each carve was made with total focus. He breathed deeply, recalled the patterns he'd seen on the enchanted tree, and reproduced them as accurately as he could.
"Tang… tang… pause… tang."
He carved this rhythm into the wood, etching a linear rhythmic sequence into its grain.
Night fell without warning. Sylvelin's sky was nearly black, speckled with timid stars and cloaked in a mist that made everything soundless, as if the world held its breath. Maple built a small fire with dry twigs and moss ignited by flint. He lay beside the vibrating stone, eyes fixed on the freshly carved rune.
"Let's see if you sing with me by morning."
Maple woke to the sound of distant birds. The forest didn't sing with a voice, but with presence. Leaves stirred like sheet music under a gentle breeze, and the stream gurgled like natural percussion. The cold still clung to him, but something in the air had shifted.
The rune he'd carved… glowed.
Faint, subtle, but unmistakably… it vibrated in unison with the black stone. He lifted it carefully and, instinctively, pressed it to the stone's surface. The moment they touched, a note resounded—deep, profound, as if the earth sighed from within its own soul.
The sound coursed through Maple's arm, pierced his chest, and lodged in his mind. Memories that weren't his—vague images, distorted sounds, a melody played on instruments he'd never seen.
Maple fell to his knees.
"This… this is real…"
It took hours to recover. He repeated the experiment with new woodchips, testing variations in the carvings. Some runes sparked silently. Others did nothing. But one, etched with three rhythmic marks, produced an audible echo that made a nearby squirrel fall from a branch.
"This one's for the lute."
Maple spent the rest of the day there, gathering wood, scraping moss that vibrated at his touch, collecting light minerals from the stone's roots. It was like mining sound. And he was only beginning.
Before leaving, he buried a small rune at the base of the stone as thanks. A silent promise to return. To learn more.
With the lute on his back and three active runes now stored in separate pouches, Maple followed the dormant forest trail, searching for the next echo.
But the Sylvelin Forest watched. And not every sound was an invitation. Some… were warnings.