The scent of eggs and toast lingered in the air, but Echo barely noticed it.
He sat at the dining table, surrounded by the familiar warmth of home. His younger brother Talon wolfed down pancakes with maple syrup smeared across his cheek. Arian, the elder brother, scrolled through his phone between bites, while Ashley fed her little son, humming a lullaby under her breath. Across the table, their mother Castella refilled a teacup with practiced grace, and Ronric read the paper like always, squinting as if deciphering ancient scripture.
Echo's plate was barely touched. He stared through it as if searching for answers on the china itself.
"Echo?" his mother asked gently.
No response.
Her fingers touched his arm. He flinched and looked up. The whole table had gone quiet, all eyes on him.
"You alright, sweetheart?" she asked again, voice low but laced with concern.
He blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just didn't sleep too well."
Ashley raised a brow. "You're always the deep sleeper of the family."
Echo gave a half-hearted smile. "I'm heading to that shelter today. The one I volunteered for. Might be late coming home, so... don't wait up."
His father grunted in acknowledgment, and Castella nodded, but her eyes lingered with worry.
Echo went upstairs, stuffed a few essentials into a small backpack—flashlight, snacks, a thermos of water, and a light jacket—and left before he could second-guess himself. The voice from last night still echoed faintly in his ears.
"Come find me."
He boarded a northbound train just before noon, it was as if he knew the direction to be headed, the city blurring past the window as he leaned against the glass. Hours passed. By evening, the sky grew darker, and snow began to kiss the edges of the windows.
He arrived at a remote northern village nestled in the cradle of the Eryndor Mountains. The cold bit at his cheeks the moment he stepped off the train.
As he asked around, a hunched old man warned him, "Storm's brewin'. Worst in twenty years. You go up there tonight, you won't be comin' back down."
Echo simply bowed. "Thank you for the warning."
He headed up anyway.
The hike was brutal. Snow fell thick and fast, turning the path into a shifting slope of ice and stone. The wind howled like a banshee, tearing through his jacket. He slipped, fell, and got back up—more than once.
By the time he reached the summit, the world was bathed in white. His breath came in short clouds. His limbs were sore and frozen. And worst of all—there was nothing there.
No shrine. No temple. No hidden castle.
Just snow.
And then—crack.
The ground gave way.
Echo had one clear thought as he fell:
"What is it with me and holes? I'm literally caving in."
Then the world turned black.
He landed with a grunt, cushioned by dust and old moss. This cave was deeper and colder than the one beneath Apartment 806. It had an aura of age, of stories lost to time.
He stood slowly, brushing snow off his shoulders. As he turned, he saw them.
Thirteen statues, half-encircling the far side of the cavern. Weathered, cloaked figures made of stone, each standing silently in their own alcove. Each with a unique design—some bore helmets, others crowns, a few held weapons of old.
But the one in the center—larger than the rest—held something that wasn't like the others.
A long, blackened object—rectangular in shape, with its length far exceeding its narrow width. Not a sword. Not a scepter. Just a rusted slab of strange metal embedded in the stone's grasp.
He stepped forward. Cautiously. His fingers brushed the surface of the object—
And the rust cracked.
It fell away like shedding skin, revealing a sleek, dark metal inscribed with foreign symbols that glowed faintly with inner light. The script shimmered briefly before taking a single form of words he somehow understood:
"Call to me, and I shall come. I am thine to commandeth."
Echo's breath hitched. The cavern thrummed with power.
But deep down, he knew one thing for certain.
This... was not what had called to him.