The city had no name.
At least, none that anyone still living could recall.
It rose from the dunes like a mirage half-trapped in memory—walls of melted stone, towers stitched together from shattered time, archways that hummed softly with Echo long past comprehension. Every building was built atop the corpse of something older. A city of recursion.
Mimus stepped slowly through its outer gate. The stone shimmered as he passed beneath, and for a moment, he was somewhere else—back in Ikenar, hearing children play among the aqueducts. Then the moment passed. The gate exhaled.
And he was alone again.
Or so he thought.
He didn't see the second figure until the breeze shifted. A silhouette crouched atop a crumbling tower, utterly still, watching him.
Mimus slowed his steps but didn't raise his weapon.
Not yet.
The figure leapt.
It moved like a flicker of thought—too quick, too quiet, but not inhuman. When it landed, dust barely stirred. It stood about Mimus's height, cloaked in something dark and iridescent, with a mask carved of bone and silver that glinted in the dying light.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Mimus spoke.
"You're one of them."
The figure tilted its head. "One of what?"
"The ones chosen. Like me."
A pause. Then, a nod.
"I'm called Ilyan," the figure said. The voice was soft, careful, and—Mimus noted—not entirely masculine. "Resonant of Yve. Fourth son of no house. Exile."
Mimus took the name in quietly. "Mimus. Ikenar. I don't know what I am yet."
"Neither do most who live," Ilyan replied. "The difference is, now you have to find out quickly."
A flicker of Echo danced around their feet.
The city itself pulsed.
"What is this place?" Mimus asked.
"Velien. City of the Forgotten." Ilyan stepped past him, boots silent on fractured stone. "This is where the Tournament begins to watch. The Curators left it here as a memory trap."
"Trap?"
"Yes. Each corner holds an imprint. A test. Some are yours. Some belong to those who've failed." They glanced over their shoulder. "And some belong to those still watching."
Mimus followed.
He could feel the difference in the air now. The Echo here wasn't passive. It probed. It whispered. It remembered. As they passed a broken statue, he caught flashes of something: a battle, a scream, a girl with eyes like lanterns falling through the sky.
He turned away.
"How many of us are here?" he asked.
Ilyan shrugged. "More than you'd think. Fewer than you'd hope."
They reached a plaza. Once, it must've been a place of celebration. Now, only half its tiles remained. A cracked fountain stood in the center, dry but humming. Around it sat four figures.
Each bore the weight of resonance.
A giant of red stone and brass, arms folded like a temple gate.
A young woman in a birdbone cloak, eyes closed in meditation.
A man with silver threads braided into his skin, whispering into a flame cupped in his hand.
And the last—hooded, faceless, sitting slightly apart. Watching them all.
Mimus slowed as Ilyan approached. The group shifted to glance his way.
The woman spoke first.
"You're late."
Ilyan shrugged. "He lived. That's enough."
Mimus looked at the others. Their Echo signatures were heavy. The plaza seemed to bend around them, absorbing tension.
"I'm Mimus," he said, simply.
The giant nodded. "Rhesk. From Tharuun. Builder's blood."
The woman opened her eyes. They were white, featureless. "Olyra. Sky-Severed."
The man with the flame smiled thinly. "Neren. Fire-listener. Your Echo stinks of grief."
The hooded one said nothing.
Ilyan gestured. "We don't share more than names until trust is earned. You'll find no friends here unless you bleed the same."
Mimus accepted that. He took a seat on the fountain edge, the stone cold even through his clothes.
"What now?" he asked.
Olyra answered. "Now, we wait."
"For what?"
"For the First Bell."
As if on cue, the sky shattered.
No sound. Just a ripple of light—pure white and painful—arcing across the dome of Varellen. From it rang a tone so deep it wasn't heard, but felt, resonating in bones and breath.
The First Bell.
The Tournament had officially begun.
And the city began to shift.
---
Buildings rearranged themselves. Streets folded inward. Memory bled into geometry. The plaza shook, and from its center, a new structure rose—spiraling, impossible, a tower made of memory shards, each window a flickering vision from a life not yet lived.
Above its archway: a single phrase in every language.
Those Who Remember Us Must Become Us.
"What does it mean?" Mimus asked.
Neren answered. "It means the next trial isn't about strength. It's about inheritance."
Rhesk stood, the stone on his skin glowing faintly. "Each of us will enter. Alone. Inside is a memory from someone who once bore Eidara. You must survive it. Or be consumed."
Olyra had already begun walking.
Ilyan looked at Mimus. "This is where we begin to understand each other. Or eliminate each other."
"Wait. You said survive. What happens if—"
"You inherit their burden," Ilyan said. "Or you break. Either way, something changes."
One by one, they stepped toward the tower.
When it was Mimus's turn, he placed his palm on the door.
It opened like breath.
And swallowed him whole.
---
Inside was not a tower.
It was a battlefield.
A sky painted with falling stars. A river of blades. Mountains made of glass. Mimus stood in the center, breath caught in his chest.
Across the field, a woman fought alone.
She moved like smoke and light—wielding a weapon that sang. Her Echo was a cyclone of color, wrapped in loss and fury. Her enemies were faceless, numberless, swarming.
But she never stopped.
He couldn't move. Only watch.
She was dying.
And with each wound, her Echo dimmed—yet her light grew sharper.
Then her eyes found him.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said.
"I was sent," Mimus replied.
She studied him.
"Then listen closely."
He nodded.
"I was called Vesyr," she said. "Once. Before I bled the world into silence. Before I gave them my name so they could forget me."
Mimus swallowed. "I know your name."
"Then carry it," she said. "Because memory is a weapon. And no one remembers me anymore."
With that, she charged again—into the endless storm.
Mimus felt something snap inside him.
A new fragment.
Not a power.
A weight.
Vesyr's final moment. Her choice. Her sacrifice.
He screamed.
And the battlefield shattered.
---
He landed in the plaza again.
On his knees.
Blood on his lip. Vision blurry.
Ilyan was crouched beside him. "You survived."
Mimus looked around. The others were emerging too. Some stood taller. Some looked haunted.
But all of them had changed.
Mimus felt something cold in his chest. A name. A grief that wasn't his.
"Vesyr," he whispered.
Ilyan nodded. "You remembered her."
Mimus stared at the flickering tower.
"She gave up her name."
"She gave it to you."
He didn't understand what that meant yet.
But he would.
Because Varellen was still watching.
And now, it remembered him back.
---