Sleep was not kind in the Sanctuary's vaulted quarters. Kaelen lay still beneath woven linens, mind whirling with silver fire and muted chords. He had hoped for calm after the ritual, but the echo runes burned dully against his skin. Shadows in the corners breathed at him. Whispers drifted through the stone corridors—some pleading, some accusing, others blank with sorrow.
He finally rose with the moon overhead, stepping into the hall to find Maelis already seated on the edge of the reflecting pool. Her thread-harp lay across her lap, strings glinting in dim torchlight.
"You slept," he said.
She looked at him, eyes gentle. "For a while. But the Sanctuary does not rest." She plucked a note—a single golden thread that resonated and faded. "Echoes form at night, especially in newly awakened threads."
Kaelen nodded. "I think… maybe I need to hear them."
Maelis's answer was a soft nod, and she motioned him forward. Together they sat beside the pool, their words falling away as she played. The melody was quiet at first, then wove into a longer pattern—a story told in half-notes and silence. Kaelen closed his eyes, listening through the pool's smooth surface, feeling the threads of memory unspool beneath his skin.
When the final note faded, they sat in silence. Maelis met his eyes. "Rest now. At dawn, your formal lessons begin."
They met in the Hall of Threads at sunrise—a tall, domed chamber lined with tapestries of woven memory, each panel humming with faint color. Runes glowed on the floor, marking circles of teaching-seats. At the front stood Sorin,a tall elf whose left side was shadowed by scars—blackened cracks cutting through pale skin, held together by soft luminescence. His hair was white at the temples, black elsewhere; his single silver eye watched Kaelen with quiet intensity.
Maelis introduced him: "This is Sorin, Senior Echo-Weaver. He has studied the unraveling strains of Ulmarak longer than any Songweaver alive."
Sorin inclined his head only slightly. "Echoes are not always benign," he said, voice gravel rich with loss. "They can be instruments or weapons. Memories can be anchors—or shackles."
He gestured to the rune-circle. "First lesson: define your anchor. Not memory alone, but intention." He placed his palm on the floor, activating the glow. "Step in."
Kaelen followed, stepping onto the rune while Sorin watched. As he entered, threads of memory coiled around him—Moments of Aravel's final battle, the rush of victory, the searing cost of Seraine's fall. A whorl of feeling came next: confusion, exhilaration, fear, grief.
"Anchor it," Sorin instructed. "Choose what defines your thread."
Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut and whispered: "Protection."
A calm steadied him. The memory threads spread out, but a central silver cord glowed bright. It was not fear. It was purpose. Breath slowed. Heart beat measured. When he opened his eyes again, the rune pulsed in kind.
"Good," Sorin said quietly. "You held the flame, without burning it." He glanced at Nyessa, seated to the side, tracing newly formed runes at her neck. "Not as strong as I hoped—but a start."
Kaelen looked up at the scarred impulse of sorrow in Sorin's one good eye. "Stronger than I felt."
Sorin's voice softened. "That's the job."
After mid-morning break, Daunting memory-weaving tasks awaited. Kaelen was paired with Nyessa, as Eryndor believed their fused Thread had unique resonance. They worked together on a runeboard: Kaelen reciting portions of memory, Nyessa tracing ignition-runes to empower the cord of intention. The ritual was delicate—too strong, and memory would flay; too weak, and it would collapse.
Kaelen nearly unravelled twice—once when the weight of Aravel's death overwhelmed him, once when the rush of a forgotten lullaby nearly took him away. Nyessa's touch anchored him firmly, like a cold hand on a fevered forehead. Her voice—low, whispered words—pulled him back.
Sorin watched with arms folded, jaw tight. When the exercise ended, he said: "You survive. That counts."
After lessons, at the central garden courtyard, Kaelen found Sorin alone—kneeling beside a shallow pool where mushrooms glowed with memory-bloom light.
Sorin's voice startled him. "You bear the first echo of Aravel with grace," he said quietly. "Most soulbound collapse. You held. Curiously… you aren't faked. Not a pale imitation."
Kaelen stared. "Thank you."
Sorin shook his head. "I'm not a teacher yet. I'm a Warning. Remember this: Aravel's choices replaced Ulmarak's Song with mortal fire. Love bound what gods had tried to contain. And yet—those same choices freed something worse. Beware of what you anchor."
Kaelen bristled. "What do you know?"
Sorin sighed. "Ulmarak's influence is fractal—echoes nested inside echoes. I lost a lover to it. I tried to contain him, but instead… surrendered a part of my own thread. I live now scarred." He tapped the blackened lines across his face. "I have no right to teach you what binds. Only how it fractures."
Kaelen crouched beside him. "Show me."
After a moment, Sorin lifted his hand and immersed it in the pool water. Memory-bloom mushrooms pulses brightly. Then he closed his eyes.
Kaelen watched threads rise: war, loss, betrayal, the hiss of darkness trying to whisper in hopes and caress. Around Sorin's memories, Kaelen glimpsed something unnerving—whispers echoing back to Ulmarak's Song. Tentative shadows, but present.
Sorin finally withdrew his hand. Water ran clear again.
"Everyone carries shards of Ulmarak's chorus," he said. "But we anchor by choice. You did today. Remember that."
That evening, as firelight danced in the Sanctuary courtyard, Kaelen sought Maelis. She sat on stone steps, humming an unWorded melody—one that wove between dusk and starlight.
He approached slowly, then offered her his hand. She took it calmly.
"Your thread is strong," she said. "Stronger than even I anticipated."
"But the scar," Kaelen said, stepping back. "Sorin—he carries mine too."
Maelis nodded. "Your bond to memory is deep, but you share it. That is what makes you unique. You're not alone."
Tears shimmered in Kaelen's chest. "I'm not letting it break us."
"Then trust," she said. "Trust the others you walk with."
He looked to the sky. "They—Nyessa, Maelis, Sorin—they're not just allies. I… care for them."
Maelis gently touched the rune at Kaelen's brow. "That is the next anchor you'll need. Love tempered by choice. Next class: emotional thread-binding. And I will be your guide."
Kaelen exhaled slowly. "Thank you."
As the candles guttered, Kaelen lay beneath layered blankets in his Quarters. Nyessa slipped in quietly, sitting beside him, wrapping him in her arm.
"You did well today," she said.
Kaelen closed his eyes. "Song is safer than sword."
She kissed his forehead. "Tonight, you rest."
He smiled. "Tomorrow, I anchor my love."
Somewhere beyond stone and melody, Ulmarak stirred again.