The streets of Varnstead bore their wounds like freshly healed scars—stones still out of place, walls patched with mismatched bricks, and soot stains clinging stubbornly to anything that had burned. Yet people walked them again. Market stalls re-opened, militia resumed their rounds, and life continued in that way it always did, even when everything beneath it had changed.
Eryx moved among them like a ghost in his own skin. First the east end of the city was destroyed completely. Then it appeared completely clean. From what it sounded like, most of the fighting happened at the breach and it wasn't even that bad. But now it appeared a small manageable skirmish had taken place within the walls and had been pushed back. Eryx didn't know what to believe anymore, didn't know what was real.
He caught a pair of militia at a corner post as they exchanged murmured words and side-glances. One nodded in his direction, a respectful tilt of the chin. The other simply glared, turned and spat on the cobbles.
Eryx paused, unsure of what he could have done to ellicit that reaction from the second man. Then he remembered, he was a Resonant now. Resonants put off an energy everyone could feel, Resonant or not. It was like a gentle pressure or a light breeze as they passed.
Eryx turned a corner and halted.
A fruit stall stood exactly where he remembered it—ripe kavali melons stacked in neat pyramids, the vendor humming that same off-key tune. But the colors were wrong. The cloth draped over the stall was blue, not red. And the vendor…
“Bren, you idiot,” Jorrin’s voice barked from behind him. “You paid twice. He saw you coming.”
Eryx whipped around, heart pounding.
No one. The street was empty. When he turned back, the stall was gone. Just a blank patch of cobblestone and an old scorch mark.
He stood there a moment longer, the phantom scent of sweet fruit still hanging in the air. It stirred emotions in him, pain, loss, a terrible anger. He shook his head and continued on
The inn came into view, its crooked wooden sign swinging with a slight creak above the door, “The Split Kettle,” charred on one side. He pushed inside, half expecting the warmth of old voices, the shine of Yara’s glyphs flapping in the air, or Kellen telling a wildly untrue story beside a half-finished drink. Mira’s cold and calculating gaze, chilling the corner of a shared table.
But it was quiet.
A single traveler hunched over a bowl of stew. The fire burned low. Behind the counter, the innkeeper—a broad-shouldered woman with tired, looked at him as he entered, then frowned slightly, as if trying to place him.
“Looking for someone?” she asked, drying a mug that had long since dried.
“Three someones actually,” Eryx said. “A girl with metallic butterflies, a way too loud guy with too many knives, and a glaciarch whos better than you and unfortunately knows it. Uh, not you specifically. Royal you." He added
She blinked, clearly confused. “Don’t recall anyone like that.”
“They were here,” he said, stepping closer. “Before the break.”
“Could be you’re mistaken. We had a few Resonants pass through, sure, but no one matching that lot.”
Eryx stared at the empty corner booth. He could see Yara sitting there, gesturing with one hand as her glyphs danced above a mug. He could hear Kellen laughing too loudly and Mira not laughing at all. But the image flickered, unsteady in his mind, like a memory overwritten by something more recent.
Did the attack from the shadow version of himself do that? It had destroyed a memory of..something.
He turned without another word and left the inn. Looking to the road he saw the cart, where it had always been, but it was empty and there was no one there to load it. Eryx began moving up the street.
———
The militia barracks hadn’t changed. Still gray, still cracked in places, but sturdy. Familiar. He stepped through the open arch and into the training yard where he’d once spent long hours with Jorrin and Bren, arguing over drills and trading bruises for pride.
Now it was half-empty.
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A few recruits were running sword drills, their movements sharp, rehearsed. They moved like people who had survived something terrible that they didn’t understand and weren’t sure they ever would.
Eryx made his way to the roster wall. A long stretch of parchment listed names—“Fallen” above one column, “Missing” another. His eyes scanned quickly.
Jorrin Hal. Missing. Presumed dead.
All of the missing had the "presumed dead" label next to thier names. A little obvious in Eryx opinion.
He closed his eyes for a moment. That hurt more than it already had. He knew his friend was dead still, even in this version of reality.
“Help you with something, Resonant?”
Eryx turned.
Bren stood before him, taller than he remembered, broader too. The lines around his eyes had deepened. But the worst part wasn’t the changes.
It was the blank look.
“Bren?” Eryx asked.
The man frowned slightly. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me.” Eryx stepped closer. “Eryx Kael. We served together. Fought during the breach at the gate.” it was a long shot but he hoped this version of Bren would at least know of him.
There was a pause. Bren tilted his head, studying him the way one might study a puzzle piece they couldn’t quite fit.
“Kael…” he repeated, slowly. “No, I don’t—Sorry. I don’t remember that name.”
“We were on trail clearing duty together,” Eryx said, voice tightening. "Almost every duty really. Cart loading, patrols outside the walls, a couple Resonant escorts missions into the Unstable Zone. You told Jorrin he snored loud enough to summon a tidecaller.”
Bren chuckled awkwardly. “Sounds like something I’d say. But I don’t… I don’t remember you, man. I’m sorry. Uh, did you say Unstable Zone? No Unstable Zones within a thousand miles of this place. You mean the Unknown Zone?"
He looked sincere. That made it worse.
“Jorrin’s missing,” Eryx said, quieter now.
“Yeah,” Bren answered, eyes lowering. “Lots are. We still don’t have solid numbers. The echo surge knocked half our systems out. Captain says it wasn’t just a break—it was a rupture.”
“A rupture?” Eryx echoed.
“That’s the word going around.” Bren shifted uncomfortably at the confused look on Eryx face. He explained hesitantly, unsure if Eryx really didn't know what it was.
“A dungeon break is natural, it happens sometimes when a dungeon becomes too unstable from the energy of the monsters inside, so it releases some. A rupture on the other hand is intentional, caused by a bad actor messing with things they shouldnt. Some say an artifact caused it. Others think it was a corrupted node. One of those echo things no one’s supposed to mess with. Could be both. Whatever it was… the city’s changed.”
Eryx nodded slowly. He felt it, too. Not just in the streets or in the people. In himself.
The conversation faltered. Eryx didn’t push it. He offered a quiet farewell and left the barracks behind.
He’d died, twice and returned. Walked the same streets. But nothing was the same.
Near the central plaza, Eryx paused beside a statue of Varnstead’s founder—one arm raised toward the Unknown Zone beyond the walls. He had passed this spot a thousand times, but today the air was different.
Drums. Faint, rhythmic.
He turned his head and saw them—two columns of militia marching down the avenue, armored and proud. At their head, a younger version of himself barked orders. Jorrin marched at his side, grinning like a madman.
The banners bore a strange sigil, one Eryx didn’t recognize—shimmering gold on black, a symbol of something ancient and wrong.
The column passed, boots silent despite the movement. Then they were gone. No sound. No trace.
Just an old man sweeping dust from the plaza, whistling a tune Eryx had never learned but somehow knew.
Eryx shook as he walked, more stumbled forward. What were these visions he was having? Was this going to be a regular occurance? He wasn't sure he could handle that.
———
That night, he dreamed again.
The world in the dream was familiar—Varnstead again, but altered. The skies hung lower, thick with red cloud-smear, the buildings slumped with age and ash. The people moved like prey. And he—or the version of him that stalked the streets—was a predator.
This Eryx didn’t walk with doubt in his step. His armor was darkened, scratched with claw marks, and he carried a jagged polearm like it was part of his body. The sigil on his shoulder was something foreign—an inverted version of the Varnstead crest, twisted into a spiral of teeth.
He didn’t speak. He hunted.
One strike. Clean. The blade passed through a fleeing figure—bandit? rebel?—and left only silence. The target didn’t scream. Didn’t have time. The version of Eryx in the dream moved with cold purpose, dashing into shadows, reappearing with perfect timing, each motion a cut into the world itself. It was efficient. Horrifying. Beautiful, in the worst way.
He remembered the last moment clearest.
A child had seen him. Eyes wide, mouth open. And this other-Eryx… paused. Just for a moment. Long enough for a flicker of doubt. Then he turned away, leaving only blood and footsteps in his wake.
Eryx bolted upright in the dim light of the barrack room, breath harsh, cold sweat pooling at the base of his neck.
A message hovered before his vision, quiet as breath:
---
You have inherited a memory not your own.
Shadow Archive accessed: Cycle-Delta-16.
New Skills Acquired:
Passive – Vulture’s Mark
Your strikes against enemies below 30% health are unnervingly precise. Attacks against weakened enemies deal +15% bonus damage and have a chance to inflict Bleed (2s).
Active – Execution Sweep (15 sec cooldown)
Instantly dash to a nearby enemy below 20% health. If the target dies, cooldown is halved and fear is inflicted on nearby enemies (1.5s).
Reapers edge:
"That strike didn’t just kill it... it unmade what it could have been. That’s not a warrior’s skill. That’s a god’s mistake..."
Mechanics:
Attack Enhancement: Temporarily infuses the weapon with a black-violet distortion field. The next melee strike deals massive multitype damage (physical, soul, temporal).
Echo Severance: If the target ismt killed and would have evolved, leveled up, mutated, or changed state within the next [X time], that potential is erased.
Overkill Clause: If the target is already weakened and below 5% health, Reaping Edge guarantees death, even bypassing regeneration or second-phase evolutions.
Distortion Feedback: User suffers Echo Stress, manifesting as migrai-"
The words just cut off abruptly on the screen. Was that what was causing the visions? Echo Stress?
Eryx heard a single word under that hideous laughter.
"Gift."
He let the word fade. Eryx sat there for a long time, staring at his hands. They looked the same—scarred knuckles, dirt beneath the nails. But something had changed. Something inside. That dream, that cycle, that version of him had lived longer. Fought smarter. Killed easier.
Was that really him?
Or was this what the Echo Engine did? Showed people different versions of themselves, maybe what they could or would become?
He had never heard of a Resonant who could hop to different versions of thier realities. He had never heard of one coming back from the dead either. Death was usually pretty damn permanent.
A system message appeared:
“Shadow Archive expanding…
Potential Alignment Detected: Cycle-Delta-16”
"Great," he thought, "guess that confirms it was me. A version of me. That I could become. Gift my ass, curse is more like it. Guess i know why the shadow version of me's weapon looked the way it did." He decided then and there he would never use Reapers Edge, lest he become that version.
He lay back down, but sleep didn’t come.
Only the faint, phantom sensation of movement in the dark—like something had passed through him and left a little too much behind.
From somewhere deep, a dark laugh echoed in his mind.
