The bell still echoed in his bones.
It rang deep—like thunder trapped underground—and it hadn't stopped since dusk.
Each toll bent the air around it, low and unnatural, like it came from beneath the world instead of above.
Pao ran.
Ashmoor was waking.
Not with life, but with movement.
Figures stirred in the ruined streets. Shapes emerged from the fog. Hooded, robed, hunched. Their hands carried rusted weapons, or worse—glowing threads of runes inked into skin.
He didn't stop to study them.
He just ran.
The broken city blurred past him—twisting alleys, sunken steps, stone walkways overgrown with roots. Every corner he turned, the air thickened, like he was diving deeper into a place not meant for the living.
The Lanternbrand beneath his shirt was burning again, more than before. Like it wanted to warn him. Or like it knew what was coming.
He clutched his satchel tighter.
Inside, the manual still throbbed faintly. It hadn't done that before the vault. Before the dream. Before the vision of fire and thrones.
Now it pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Or a ticking clock.
By the time he reached the southern gate, the fog had become a wall behind him.
Not mist. Not smoke.
Just… thick, pressing stillness.
He stepped through the cracked gate archway—and then heard it.
Footsteps.
Fast. Purposeful.
He turned.
A figure approached out of the haze. Thin. Hooded. Sword in hand.
And behind that one, more.
They didn't shout.
They didn't speak.
They just came.
Pao drew his blade, breath ragged.
There were three of them now—two flanking the first.
One bore a broken mask with lines etched across its surface. Another held a hooked staff that pulsed with orange light.
The third was taller than the rest, draped in red, with metal chains around its arms.
They spread out.
Pao whispered a word under his breath—an old invocation, one Solon had taught him but forbidden him to use outside the Rite:
"Nath'rel."
His blade shimmered.
The first cultist rushed him.
Steel met steel—only for a moment.
Pao sidestepped, turning the blade downward, slicing at the cloak. A hiss escaped the mask. The cultist fell back—but the other two were already moving.
He ducked the hooked staff's swing. Heat grazed his shoulder.
The third moved silently, eyes covered in cloth, but tracking him perfectly.
Too fast.
He needed to end it now.
He planted his feet and shouted:
"Verun Kaa!"
The rune on his blade lit up. A burst of orange light exploded from the edge, striking the staff wielder mid-swing.
They collapsed.
One down.
The masked one lunged again, blade high.
Pao raised his sword to meet it—
But his footing slipped.
The masked cultist struck.
Steel grazed his side. He fell, rolled, came up with dirt in his teeth and pain in his ribs.
The third attacker was already closing in—chains rising like whips.
And then—
A flash of blue light.
The chain-wielder jerked backward, stumbling.
A bolt of energy struck the stones near Pao's feet.
A voice called out from behind the gate:
"Move, kid!"
Pao scrambled to the side.
A figure in dark armor dashed into the fight—hooded, short hair visible beneath a battered helm. A woman, fast and precise, twin daggers glowing faintly.
She moved like someone who'd been killing for a long time.
In moments, the cultists were down.
Not dead—unconscious. Maimed. Scattered.
The woman turned to him, panting lightly. "Not a bad job," she said. "But you're bleeding."
He didn't answer.
Her eyes flicked to his chest.
"…You're branded."
His hand went instinctively to the Lanternmark beneath his collar.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She sheathed one dagger. "Used to be Guild. Name's Corin. Now? I just try not to die."
They moved quickly, away from the gates.
Corin led him into a dried-up creek bed, half-sheltered by hanging roots and ancient trees. She didn't speak until they stopped under a collapsed archway that smelled faintly of salt and copper.
Pao dropped into a crouch and leaned back, exhausted.
Corin stood nearby, watching him.
"Where'd you get that mark?" she asked eventually.
He hesitated.
"…Solon."
Corin narrowed her eyes. "Solon's dead."
"I know."
"Then why are you still breathing?"
He didn't answer.
She sighed and sat down across from him.
"You don't have to tell me," she said. "But you should know—marks like that, they don't fade. They change you."
"I'm already changing," Pao murmured.
She glanced over. "Figured. You used Verun Kaa raw. No tuning. Just instinct."
He nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "You're not gonna last long like that."
They sat in silence for a while.
Then Pao spoke, softly.
"I saw something in the city. In a vault. A memory. Of someone who looked like me—but not. He… he called himself the wound of Kezrith Vorr."
Corin didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
"So it's true," she said at last.
"What is?"
She looked at him, and her voice was cold.
"That you're not the last exorcist. You're the first echo."
He didn't sleep that night either.
But something inside him did.
And when he closed his eyes, he saw not the seven thrones—
But one.
A chair of obsidian.
Waiting.
For him.