The quest for tangible proof became the singular focus of Anya's days. Morwen, having guided Anya to the precipice of her power, now acted as a silent, watchful shadow, offering cryptic advice and subtle nudges. She believed in the power of the Echo, but she knew that a wolf like Rhys, blinded by trauma and steeped in traditional logic, would require more than just Anya's feeling. He would need something undeniable.
Their search led them back to the periphery of the old skirmish grounds, focusing on areas where Mara might have lingered, where her particular brand of malicious energy would have left a stronger, more lasting imprint. Anya, with Morwen's guidance, learned to seek out not just the strongest echoes, but the falsest ones—places where genuine emotions had been carefully masked or deliberately twisted. It was painstaking work, mentally taxing, like sifting through sand for a single grain of gold.
One crisp afternoon, Anya knelt by a collapsed stone wall, once part of an ancient hunting lodge, now reclaimed by moss and ivy. The lodge, a relic from the time of the ambush, resonated with a complex array of emotions: faded camaraderie, sudden terror, and the acrid tang of betrayal. Morwen had hinted that this might have been a staging point for Mara, a place she used to plan or observe.
Anya placed her palms flat against the cold, damp stones, closing her eyes, and letting her Empathic Echo flow. The lodge's past flooded her senses: the laughter of warriors, the clinking of tankards, the warmth of a fire. Then, a sharp, cold intrusion. A flicker of triumph, a smug satisfaction, followed by a sensation of something being placed then concealed. It was Mara. Her presence here was undeniable.
As Anya pushed deeper, she felt a subtle, almost imperceptible emotional residue clinging to a specific section of the wall—a lingering echo of intense focus, a secret being carefully hidden. It was overlaid with Mara's unique, shifting energetic signature, making it difficult to discern, but Anya's training had sharpened her ability to cut through such deception.
"There's something here," Anya murmured, her voice strained with concentration. "Something... small. Hidden with great care. It feels like... a memory, trapped within an object."
Morwen's eyes glinted, a spark of anticipation. "Patience, little wren. The truth does not yield easily to the impatient."
Anya focused, pushing her Empathic Echo. The stone beneath her hand vibrated faintly. She felt Mara's hand, careful and precise, tucking something into a crevice. It was accompanied by a burst of self-congratulation, a silent boast of her cleverness.
She searched the stones, running her fingers along every crack and fissure. Many were empty, filled with debris. Then, her fingers brushed against a small, oddly smooth patch that felt out of place. She scratched at it, digging away loose earth and crumbling mortar.
Behind the stone, nestled deep within a narrow, ivy-choked gap, her fingers closed around something hard, cold, and metallic. She pulled it free.
It was a locket. Small and intricately carved from dark metal, depicting a twisted serpent coiling around a moon. But it wasn't the craftsmanship that made her breath catch; it was the intense, swirling echo of emotion emanating from it.
As she held it, the locket didn't just feel emotions; it played them back like a fragmented memory. She saw a flicker of Mara's smug face, heard the echo of a whispered, triumphant laugh. Then, a flash of a map, quickly concealed, and the cold calculation in Mara's mind as she planned the ambush, fully aware of the carnage it would cause. The emotions were so vivid, so undeniable, that Anya knew this was it. This was the proof. This was Mara's enchanted locket, carrying not just a memory, but an emotional blueprint of her treachery.
"This is it," Anya breathed, holding up the locket. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the magnitude of the discovery. "She hid it here. It's filled with her thoughts, her plans. Her... joy in the betrayal."
Morwen stepped closer, taking the locket from Anya's hand, her ancient fingers tracing the serpent design. "A truth-keeper, woven with deceptive magic. It would only reveal its true purpose to one who could decipher the echoes within. Clever, Mara was. Foolish, to believe her lies would remain silent forever." Morwen's gaze settled on Anya, full of pride and a touch of warning. "This is your shield, little wren. But also your sword. Are you ready to wield it?"
Anya looked at the locket, then out towards the distant mountains where Stonehaven lay. The cold anger, the thirst for justice, solidified within her. She was ready. The time for running was over. The time for truth had begun.