The ruins of Glairemoor didn't return to silence.
They pulsed.
Even after the Wraith's destruction, the ground underfoot carried a hum—low, constant, like a heartbeat trapped beneath stone. The fog thinned, but it never vanished. It clung to the wreckage like a living thing, curling between shattered spires and crumbled sanctuaries.
Valerian stood at the epicenter of the blast zone, his boots crunching over scorched stone. Umbra's wings folded behind him, obsidian scales dimming as the creature's presence faded. It didn't vanish—not fully—but melted into shadow once more, waiting.
The echo of the Wraith's final words still rang inside him.
> "You are the echo."
An echo of what?
"Valerian." Lira's voice was soft, cautious. "Did you… see something?"
He didn't respond immediately. His hand flexed at his side. Still trembling. The shard—the memory fragment—had embedded itself deep, and even now it gnawed at his thoughts like a parasite.
"Yeah," he finally muttered. "Too much."
