The dawn crept slowly across the horizon, washing the world in a muted gold that barely penetrated the dense wall of trees before Orien. The Forest of Echoes stretched vast and wild, its tangled branches clawing at the sky, its shadows shifting like whispers in the early light. A chill wound through the air, sharp and biting, carrying with it a thousand faint voices — some mournful, some angry, all haunting.
Orien stood on the forest's edge, the weight of the Vale dagger pressed against his hip and the familiar throb of the third mark on his arm pulsing like a steady heartbeat beneath his sleeve. The shards he had collected since leaving home lay heavy in his satchel, each one a promise, a memory, a challenge. This was the first trial, the one he had been dreading and dreaming about in equal measure: The Forest of Echoes.
He took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth and ancient bark filling his lungs, and stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the forest seemed to inhale — the mist thickened, swallowing the light, dulling sound. His footsteps were muffled by thick moss and fallen leaves; the silence was deep, oppressive. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. Only the faint rustle of leaves in a breathless breeze whispered around him.
And then the voices came.
At first, barely audible. A susurrus carried on the wind, like distant laughter or a half-remembered song. Orien froze, hand going to the dagger's hilt.
"Orien…"
The voice was soft, almost lost among the rustling branches.
"Orien…"
A second, then a third, each calling his name with a different tone — longing, warning, sorrow.
His heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself onward. The forest was alive — not just with creatures or trees, but with the memories of all who had ever passed through. Echoes of the lost, the fallen, and the forgotten. Each step forward was met with fragments of voices, half-spoken secrets, dreams, regrets.
He wove through the trees, the light dimming as thick branches knitted overhead. Shadows seemed to move with purpose — fleeting shapes that vanished when he looked directly. Every whisper tugged at his thoughts, dredging memories both tender and painful.
One voice stood out — clearer than the rest. A woman's voice, steady and sure.
"Orien Vale… the Trials await. Face your past to claim your future."
Orien's breath caught. He knew that voice.
"Lira?"
But the forest only swallowed his words, mocking him with silence.
Ahead, the trees thinned and opened to a clearing bathed in cold, gray light. At its center stood an ancient stone altar, worn by time and covered in moss and runes that pulsed faintly with a silvery glow. The air hummed with power, thick enough to taste.
He approached cautiously, each step weighted with purpose. The shards in his satchel thrummed in response, pulling him forward like a beacon.
Reaching the altar, Orien placed the three shards—fire, feather, and eye—carefully upon the cold stone. The runes flared brighter, illuminating the clearing with an eerie light. The mist curled and twisted, coalescing into a figure.
A man stepped forward — a shadow of a man, translucent and shimmering. He wore the Vale crest on his cloak, his face worn with sadness but resolute.
"Who stands before the Trials?" the apparition asked, voice deep and echoing.
"Orien Vale," he answered, voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. "I seek to bear the burden… to protect what remains."
The figure nodded solemnly.
"Then face the Echo. Relive your past. Confront the truth within."
Suddenly, the forest dissolved around him, replaced by shifting scenes — memories dragged from the depths of his mind and set before him like a cruel play.
He was a boy again, standing at the river's edge, laughing with Lira as they raced to climb the ancient oak. The sun was bright, the air warm, and the scent of wildflowers filled his nostrils. He could hear her voice clearly.
"Faster, Orien! You'll never catch me!"
His heart ached with the memory.
Then the scene shifted — the forge, blazing and hot, his father's strong hands guiding his own as he shaped his first dagger. Pride and love burned like the coals.
But the warmth was shattered as the scene turned cold and dark.
He saw the day he left Elowen. The night of the great storm. The shattered village. Flames licking the sky. Screams in the dark.
He saw his father's fallen form, the bloodied hammer on the floor.
And Lira, weeping at the riverbank, calling his name as he vanished into the night.
The echoes twisted his memories, showing him his fears — failure, loss, abandonment. Each moment pressed heavy on his chest, threatening to drown him.
But Orien forced himself to breathe, to stand tall against the tide of pain.
"You are not alone," the apparition whispered. "You carry the past, but you decide the future."
The forest returned slowly, the mist receding as the dawn light spilled through the trees once more.
Orien stood alone in the clearing, the shards glowing warmly on the altar. He felt lighter somehow, as if a weight had lifted — not gone, but borne with new strength.
He took the shards, tucking them safely into his satchel, and looked toward the path ahead.
The Trials were just beginning.
---
The forest behind him was silent again. The voices faded, but their lessons lingered in his heart.
He stepped forward, deeper into the unknown, ready to face whatever the next trial might bring.