By the time they reached the borders of the Ashglass Expanse, Kael had learned to stop asking what the world used to be.
The land here was dry, fractured, and glowing from beneath like a cracked pane of volcanic glass. Trees stood fossilized mid-burn, as though some divine fire had swept through and frozen time itself. Once, Drex said, this region had been the heartland of the Solar Accord, a technological clan of light-benders and sunweavers. Now, it was just another scar.
But it wasn't uninhabited.
"Caravan ahead," Aren announced, lowering her scope-glass. "Dust banners, old-world construction. Looks like a Hallowmarch family."
"Friendly?" Kael asked.
She glanced at Drex, who was already checking his blade's charge. "Define friendly."
"Define family," Drex said grimly.
They watched from a ridge as the caravan rolled through the cracked terrain—a long snake of wheeled platforms, massive biomechanical beasts pulling metal containers with eyes carved into their flanks. The wagons were painted in the old blood colors: red, rust, and bone. Talismans swung from their edges, glowing with captured echoes.
Lira spoke softly. "Bloodkin. Definitely. Probably the Scortha line."
Kael looked between them. "What's the Scortha line?"
Drex spat. "Talent harvesters. They collect kids with emerging powers, train them under blood-seal, and sell them as bonded protectors to city-states. They call it 'preserving the old ways.' We call it slavery."
Kael's hand went instinctively to the pouch around his neck where the ember-seed pulsed. "Why would we approach them?"
"We won't," Aren said. "But they're heading for the same pass. And if they see us as a threat…"
"They'll take me," Kael finished grimly.
"Or worse," Lira added. "They might test you. If your talent profile's still unstable, it could trigger a purge."
Kael frowned. "Purge?"
"Some clans believe unstable echoes are contagious. They destroy the source to protect others."
"I see," Kael said quietly.
"We'll skirt their flank at night," Drex said. "Fast, quiet, no campfires."
But the desert had other plans.
—
That evening, as they descended into a shaded ravine, the winds turned. Red dust began to pour down the cliffs like sand through an hourglass, burying tracks, blinding vision. The caravan's scout glyphs, embedded in the desert air, flared in response.
"Too late," Aren hissed. "They've marked us."
A low drone filled the air.
Kael looked up.
From the haze emerged a figure in ceremonial armor, her robes rippling with kinetic glyphs. Her face was hidden behind a mask shaped like a scorpion's skull, and her hands radiated a thin red light.
"Identify yourselves," she commanded. Her voice echoed twice—once in sound, once in talent.
Drex stepped forward. "Just travelers. No allegiance. Passing through."
"You tread on bloodbound paths," the woman said. "Declare your talents or be bound for inspection."
"No thanks," Aren growled.
Kael stepped forward, surprising everyone. "I'll speak."
The woman turned to him. The red light in her hand flared.
"You are unsealed," she said. "Your echo is unbound. That is forbidden in Bloodground."
Kael's heart raced. But the ember-seed within him stirred—calm, focused.
"I am learning," he said. "I am not unstable."
The woman cocked her head. "Prove it."
A second figure emerged from the dust—a younger man, perhaps Kael's age, with eyes like polished jet and a blade shaped from hardened shadow. His aura flared with restrained violence.
"This is Relun," the masked woman said. "Blood-chosen. He will test your echo."
Aren and Drex moved instantly, but Kael held up a hand. "No. I'll do it."
—
They circled each other in the basin of the ravine, while the Bloodkin watched silently from above. The air shimmered from conflicting talents. Relun moved first—slashing with a blade that bent light itself, creating false paths and mirrored doubles.
Kael let his instincts rise. The ember-flame stirred in his chest, leaking into his limbs. He focused—not on the light—but on the intent behind it.
One of the illusions blinked. A hesitation.
Kael dove toward it.
His palm struck Relun's chest, not to harm—but to connect.
In that instant, Kael felt Relun's echo: sharp, trained, honed to cut. But he also felt fear—the fear of being replaced, of being unworthy.
Kael's ember-flame reacted not with violence, but empathy.
A spark leapt from him to Relun.
The boy staggered back, clutching his blade, stunned.
"You touched me," he said, eyes wide. "You didn't attack—you read me."
Kael lowered his hands. "My talent adapts. Learns. It doesn't destroy."
The masked woman stepped forward slowly. "That's not a clan talent. That's… echo-responsive. Organic."
She turned to the crowd above. "This one walks the older path. The echo-binders. The seed-born."
Kael blinked. "You know what this is?" He held up his ember-marked hand.
She nodded slowly. "Only in myth. Long before the clans, some believed that talent was not given—but grown. Fed by experience, nurtured by bonds. You are not the first to carry the seed… but you may be the first in centuries."
—
Instead of killing them, the Bloodkin offered parley.
Around a fire pit carved into stone, Kael sat across from the masked woman, whose name was revealed to be Armath Scortha, Matron of the Eighth Line.
She poured him bitterleaf tea and spoke in low tones.
"Once, every major clan had a way to harvest talents. Most did it through bloodlines. A few through machines. But the oldest stories speak of the Seed Path. The Living Talent."
Kael listened, enthralled.
"They said only those who remained undefined could walk it. That the moment you named your power, it began to die. Because names… are prisons."
Kael looked at the seed's glow. "So what happens to me now?"
Armath considered. "You're unclaimed. That makes you a risk. But it also makes you valuable."
"You want to take me?"
"No. I want to warn you."
She leaned close. "There are others looking for Seed-bearers. They call themselves the Echo Purists. They believe the Collapse was caused by your kind."
Kael tensed. "What do they do with us?"
"They remove the echo. Burn it out. Erase all memory of who you were."
Kael clenched his fists.
"You're being hunted," Armath said gently. "Not just by them—but by the world itself. Because the world cannot tolerate what it cannot categorize."
—
Later that night, Kael stood at the edge of the camp, watching the Bloodkin perform a slow, deliberate dance of shadows. Echoes rose from their robes like smoke—memories woven into movement.
Aren approached quietly. "You did good, kid. Smart not to fight him fully."
Kael shrugged. "I didn't want to. I saw his fear."
"That's new," Drex muttered, stepping beside them. "Not many talents let you feel someone else's echo."
Kael's eyes flicked to the seed pulsing at his chest. "I think… I'm not just evolving. I'm absorbing."
Lira joined them, her construct now eerily quiet. "Be careful. Absorption without filtration leads to corruption. You might end up not knowing which thoughts are yours."
Kael looked up at the sky. The stars above Ashglass were distorted, refracted through dust and long-dead echo fields.
"I'll hold on," he said. "To who I am."
Drex snorted. "And who is that, exactly?"
Kael smiled faintly.
"Someone becoming."
---