The tavern welcomed them like the memory of warmth on a long-forgotten winter night—quiet, dimly lit, wrapped in the scent of fresh bread and woodsmoke.
Arin and Evelyne crossed the threshold in silence, their boots dragging over the wooden floorboards with the weariness of two souls who had seen something their minds hadn't yet caught up with.
The forest ruin was gone.
There were no remains, no trace—only the rings still bound to their fingers like silent watchers, still warm, still faintly pulsing with a rhythm too steady to be natural.
They said nothing as they entered their room.
It was the same couple's room they had booked before: one large bed, a single flickering hearth in the corner, and thick drapes drawn halfway over the window where night had settled in full. Shadows danced across the floor. The quiet was not peaceful—it was heavy.
"I suppose we should eat," Evelyne murmured. Her voice was distant, dazed, like someone still waking from a strange dream.
Arin nodded. "We won't sleep otherwise."
The innkeeper's daughter brought up a tray: hot lentil stew, slices of hard bread, and preserved rootfruit on the side. Neither of them had the strength for pleasantries. They sat at the edge of the bed, bowls in hand, eating slowly, mechanically. The food warmed their mouths but not their thoughts.
The rings remained.
Each time their fingers brushed them, a soft hum seemed to echo faintly in their bones. The bands had neither loosened nor shifted, and when Evelyne had attempted to remove hers earlier, it refused to budge—as though it had never been separate from her to begin with.
"We'll deal with them tomorrow," Arin said, leaning back against the bedframe.
"Tomorrow," Evelyne echoed, and yawned.
Neither of them questioned the shared bed. They were too tired to care, too drained to maintain the space they usually observed. Their bodies ached with fatigue, their minds frayed by the strange disappearance of the ruin.
They climbed under the covers without another word.
The ring pulsed faintly as if responding to their nearness.
The hearth dimmed.
Sleep came like a fog rolling over their senses.
Eyelids heavy. Thoughts slowed. Muscles melted into linen and wool.
They didn't even realize when they stopped maintaining distance.
Didn't notice when their shoulders brushed.
Didn't feel the warmth shared between them grow just enough to push back the cold crawling under the door.
Sleep took them both—swift, seamless, inevitable.
---
Somewhere else, far beyond time…
Evelyne stood in a field of white ash.
The sky above was bruised purple, and black snow fell in silent sheets. Charred trees creaked in the wind, their branches reaching out like broken ribs. No sun. No stars. Just the endless hush of ruin.
She wore armor. It didn't belong to her—but it fit.
Dark silver plates, a torn sash at her waist, and a symbol glowing faintly on her chest. She didn't recognize the crest, but her heart clenched at the sight of it. Something sacred. Something lost.
In the distance, a citadel burned slowly in silence. The ruins sang—not in sound, but in memory. She could feel the cries of those who had once walked these halls. Their voices were buried in the ash.
Atop the stairs stood a woman.
Evelyne's breath caught.
The woman was… her.
Or someone who looked like her—taller, regal, wrapped in violet fire. She wore the same armor, but her eyes were older. Wounded. Her expression was unreadable, torn between sorrow and unflinching resolve.
She held up her hand.
The ring—the same ring Evelyne now wore—shone on her finger like a dying star.
"You are the last echo," the woman said.
Her voice was distant thunder.
"The vow we made is not yet broken."
Evelyne tried to speak—but no words came.
The world fractured—splintered like cracked glass.
---
She awoke with a gasp, sitting up too fast.
Sweat clung to her skin, and her breath came in short, shallow gulps. The fire in the hearth was dead. The moonlight filtered in pale and cold through the curtains.
Arin still slept beside her, a faint furrow between his brows, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
She looked down at her hand.
The ring gleamed faintly. The metal warm. The pulse… constant.
And though the dream was already slipping from her mind, one word remained:
"Echo."
She didn't know what it meant. But it scared her more than she wanted to admit.
Still, exhaustion reclaimed her before fear could take root. She sank back under the sheets, the room heavy with silence, and didn't speak.
Not yet.