The village didn't celebrate surviving.
It whispered.
Doors closed earlier than usual.Conversations dropped to murmurs.Eyes followed Ren wherever he walked — not accusing, not hostile… but uncertain.
That uncertainty hurt more than fear.
Ren sat on the steps of the elder's house, elbows on his knees, staring at the dirt road beyond the gate. The place where the masked figure had stood felt colder now, as if something had been taken from the ground itself.
Lyra sat beside him.
She hadn't let go of his hand since the bell stopped ringing.
"They're scared," she said quietly.
Ren nodded.
"I know."
Borin leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, axe resting at his side. His eyes never left the village perimeter.
"They should be," he muttered."But not of you."
Draven paced in tight circles.
"I'm just saying, if mysterious masked beings start folding reality, we should seriously consider underground bunkers."
No one laughed.
Ren exhaled slowly.
The echo inside him stirred — not trembling now, but tense.Like a held breath.
It didn't like being noticed.
It didn't like being named.
And it didn't like that others now understood it could be hunted.
Lyra studied Ren's face.
"You're thinking too hard again."
He gave a small, tired smile.
"Probably."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
"Ren… when it said the village would be 'marked'… what does that mean?"
Ren hesitated.
"I don't think it means danger. Not yet."
Borin snorted.
"That's comforting."
"It means observation," Ren continued."They're watching how I respond. Who I protect. What I'm willing to risk."
Lyra's grip tightened.
"So they're using us."
Ren shook his head.
"No. They're using me."
Silence settled between them.
Draven stopped pacing.
"That's worse."
The elder approached slowly, her cane tapping softly against the stone.
"Children," she said, voice steady but grave, "the village council is meeting tonight."
Ren stiffened.
Lyra looked up sharply.
"About what?"
The elder didn't look away from Ren.
"About whether you should remain here."
The words landed harder than any threat.
Lyra stood instantly.
"No."
Borin's eyes darkened.
"Over my dead body."
Draven made a distressed noise that sounded like a kettle breaking.
Ren raised a hand.
"Let her finish."
The elder nodded.
"They are afraid," she said gently."Not of you… but of what follows you."
Ren swallowed.
"I won't let them get hurt."
The echo pulsed faintly — attentive.
"That may not be a choice you get to make," the elder replied.
Lyra stepped closer to Ren.
"Then they don't get to choose either."
The elder's eyes softened.
"You think like family. Not like leaders."
Ren closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his voice was calm.
"If staying puts the village in danger… I'll leave."
Lyra froze.
"No."
Borin's voice was iron.
"You will not."
Draven looked like he was about to cry.
Ren met Lyra's eyes.
"I won't run blindly. And I won't abandon you."
Her throat tightened.
"But if the world is watching this place because of me… then I can't pretend nothing has changed."
The echo hummed — not approving, not opposing.
Listening.
Learning.
Lyra shook her head.
"You don't get to decide that alone."
Ren smiled faintly.
"I know."
The elder sighed.
"That's why this is difficult."
She turned and walked away.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the village.
Ren felt it then.
Not danger.
Distance.
The first true cost of being seen.
Lyra leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Whatever happens," she whispered, "we go together."
Ren rested his forehead against hers.
"Always."
Behind them, Borin nodded once.
Draven sniffed loudly.
"Just saying… if we leave, I want first pick of the supplies."
Ren laughed — softly, briefly.
And the echo echoed it.
Not mockingly.
Not hungrily.
But quietly.
As if learning what it meant to belong.
Far beyond the village, something shifted again.
Not moving closer.
Not retreating.
Waiting.