They walked for what felt like a day, though time in Varellen was a suggestion, not a rule. The terrain shifted subtly beneath their feet: the canyon flattened into scrubland, then into slick black stone that hummed beneath each step.
Mimus said little. Caldrin didn't fill the silence.
When they did speak, it was practical.
"Never trust a Resonant with silver hair and no Echo shadow," Caldrin muttered as they climbed a ridge. "It means they've burned it all away."
Or: "If you pass through a door and forget who you are for more than ten seconds, turn around. Quickly."
Or, once: "The Echo Market only opens when someone wants something they shouldn't."
That last one stuck.
By the time the ridge flattened out, Mimus could feel it before he saw it—an energy in the air like tension between old friends. The horizon shimmered like oil on water, revealing flickers of tents, lights, voices.
He frowned. "Is that… a city?"
Caldrin snorted. "Hardly. Just don't stare at anything too long."
They crested the last rise, and the Echo Market unveiled itself in full.
It wasn't built. It was remembered.
Stalls emerged from thin air, built from mismatched pieces of memory—pillars from temples, windows from childhood homes, broken thrones, war banners, and hollowed-out statues. Merchants with no faces hawked goods that flickered in and out of reality: spinning glass hearts, bottled dreams, Echo-slick blades, whispers trapped in lanterns.
Some wares were physical. Others—emotional. One stall sold lost moments. Another traded voices.
And everywhere, the Echo shimmered.
Mimus felt it in his bones. His own Echo stirred nervously.
Caldrin looked sideways at him. "Rule one: don't buy anything with memory unless it's yours."
"Why?"
"Because you'll remember it. And the more you remember something that wasn't yours, the less of yourself you'll keep."
They stepped into the shifting crowd.
Figures moved through the aisles—some clearly human, others... not. One man walked upside down across an invisible ceiling, his face twisted into a grin that never blinked. A pair of twins argued with a fox-headed merchant over a locket that changed shape depending on who looked at it.
One child sat alone, offering pieces of a broken star to passersby. Mimus paused, but Caldrin tugged his sleeve.
"Don't. That one sells regret."
They moved deeper.
"Why are we here?" Mimus asked.
Caldrin scanned the crowd. "Because someone's been watching you. Since the Trial."
His stomach turned. "Watching how?"
"Through Echo. Through choice. Doesn't matter. What matters is they left a marker."
She led him to a stall with no merchant. Just a mirror resting on a table of bones.
The mirror reflected nothing.
"Touch it," Caldrin said.
He hesitated, then reached out. The moment his fingers met the glass, light flared. The world bent.
And Mimus fell through.
---
He landed in a chamber of obsidian and smoke. No doors. No ceiling. Just endless depth.
A voice greeted him. Not loud. Not soft. Just… present.
"You carry your Echo like armor," it said. "That makes you dangerous."
Across the room, a figure sat on an impossible throne made of flickering possibilities. Their body was hidden beneath an old scholar's robe, embroidered with words in a hundred forgotten languages. Their face was masked—one half smiling, one half broken.
"Who are you?" Mimus asked.
"I am a Curator. Of memory. Of potential."
Mimus tensed. "You're one of them. The ones who destroyed Uzelith."
The Curator tilted their head. "Destroyed? No. Archived. Some things must be remembered by absence."
He stepped forward. "Why am I here?"
"Because your Echo is young, but loud. And that… is rare."
Mimus stared. "You wanted to see me fight myself?"
"I wanted to see if you could."
The Curator rose. They moved without sound. Echo bled from their body like ink in water.
"You will not survive Varellen by strength alone. You must learn to shape your Echo. To command it. Or it will command you."
"And if I don't?"
The Curator pointed. The mirror appeared again, floating between them.
"If you don't, you will become this."
Mimus looked—and saw himself, older, corrupted, echo-burning at the seams. A version of him that had lost himself to pain.
"I won't let that happen."
"Then choose what to forget."
"What?"
"To shape Echo, you must shed something. A memory. A fear. A truth. Burn it into power."
Mimus felt pressure in his chest. His mind flooded with moments:
—Rynor's hand reaching for him through smoke.
—His mother's lullaby the night before the purge.
—The moment he chose to live.
He trembled. "If I give one up… I won't get it back."
"No. But you'll gain something else."
He looked down.
And chose.
"I give up the sound of her voice."
The words left him like blood. Something inside him cracked. The pain was real, but beneath it—power. Echo roared through his body, and his blade appeared again—fully formed, rimmed in memory-light.
The Curator nodded. "Then your Eidara has awakened."
Mimus collapsed to one knee.
"What do I do now?"
"You walk. You climb. You descend. Until you reach the center."
"Of what?"
"Of yourself."
The mirror shattered.
Mimus woke in the Market.
Caldrin stood nearby, a solemn look in her eyes. "You did it."
"I lost something."
"You always do."
They walked away from the mirror.
As they left the Market, the stalls began to fade. Merchants packed up nothing. Tents vanished. Regrets folded neatly into pockets.
Behind them, the Echo shimmered.
Ahead, the path narrowed.
And somewhere, far beneath Varellen, a door waited.
Locked by memory.
Sealed by truth.
Waiting for a name.