"Peace begins as a question, not a reward."
There was no ground.
There was no sky.
There was only **falling**—
endless, weightless, silent—
as the shattered memory of the First Anchor's hall dissolved into streaks of light around Aarav and older Aarav.
They spun through a vortex of resonance, not tumbling but being _drawn,_ as if gravity itself had decided to rewrite its rules for them alone.
Aarav reached out blindly.
His fingers brushed older Aarav's wrist.
The contact steadied both of them, the fall slowing—not physically, but rhythmically, as though their heartbeats were deciding the pace.
A whisper echoed around them.
Not words.
Not a voice.
Just the faint sigh of a world reorganizing itself.
And then—
They landed.
Not hard.
Not soft.
Just _arrived._
Aarav blinked as the world assembled around him piece by piece.
He stood in a valley made of dusk.
A wide canyon carved from memories he had never lived and feelings he had never named.
The air glowed with faint threads of light drifting upward like embers.
Older Aarav stood beside him, breathing hard.
"Welcome," he said quietly, "to the Echo Field."
Aarav looked around. "What is this place?"
"The place between trials," older Aarav murmured.
"Where the Vale decides what part of you needs to break next."
Aarav winced. "Great."
But the Echo Field wasn't empty.
He turned—and froze.
Dozens of figures stood scattered across the valley.
Shadows.
Silhouettes.
Shapes made of half-remembered faces and incomplete truths.
Aarav knew them all without knowing any of them.
Some were echoes of fear.
Some were echoes of loss.
Some were echoes of futures that had never happened.
Each figure flickered softly, pulsing with resonance drawn from different parts of him.
Older Aarav watched with a mixture of dread and pity.
"I remember this place," he whispered.
"It nearly killed me."
Aarav swallowed. "How?"
Before older Aarav could answer, the nearest echo turned.
It faced Aarav directly.
A child.
Not him—
not exactly—
but close enough to twist something sharp in his chest.
A small boy with wide eyes, clutching a broken toy with trembling fingers.
Aarav stepped forward instinctively.
"Hey—who—?"
The boy lifted his head.
His voice was tiny, trembling.
_"Why didn't you save me?"_
Aarav froze.
The world around him tightened.
The canyon dimmed.
Every echo turned slowly toward him, their faces forming and unforming with each pulse of the Vale.
Older Aarav grabbed his arm. "Don't answer it."
Aarav's breath shook. "Why not?"
"Because these aren't memories," older Aarav said, voice firm.
"They're accusations."
The boy stepped closer, flickering.
His eyes were hollow with the weight of blame no child should carry.
_"You should have helped me."_
_"You should have run faster."_
_"You shouldn't have left."_
Figures around him joined in.
A teenager with bandaged hands.
A friend he barely remembered losing.
A faceless figure with cracked eyes.
A silent version of himself curled into a ball.
Voices layered, overlapping:
_"You weren't enough."_
_"You didn't try."_
_"You failed us."_
_"You failed yourself."_
Aarav staggered, gripping his head.
The hum in his chest crackled into chaos.
Older Aarav forced him back.
"Aarav! Listen to me. The Echo Field doesn't show truth. It shows every fear you buried. Every guilt you never processed."
The echoes stepped closer.
The canyon walls darkened.
_"You let us die."_
_"You let us break."_
_"You let the King take everything."_
Aarav clenched his jaw. "Stop."
The echoes didn't.
Meera's voice surfaced behind the wall of sound—
not really hers,
just something shaped from Aarav's memories:
_"You shouldn't have survived."_
Aarav staggered back as if struck.
Older Aarav slammed a palm against his chest.
A shock wave burst out—
not enough to destroy the echoes,
but enough to force them back a few steps.
"Focus," older Aarav said.
"They're strong because you haven't faced these parts of yourself."
Aarav's breathing grew shallow. "I can't fight all this."
"You're not supposed to fight it."
Aarav looked up sharply.
Older Aarav held his gaze.
"You're supposed to understand it."
The echoes stared.
Waiting.
Judging.
Demanding.
Aarav swallowed hard.
"Then what do I do?"
Older Aarav stepped back.
"You listen."
Aarav closed his eyes.
The valley pulsed.
The accusations pressed closer.
_"You failed."_
_"You broke."_
_"You weren't enough."_
His breath caught.
And for the first time—
Aarav answered.
His voice was small, raw, shaking:
"I know."
The echoes froze.
The canyon stilled.
Aarav continued, louder this time:
"I know I failed."
"I know I broke."
"I know I couldn't save you."
"I know I wasn't enough."
The echoes trembled—
wavering like they'd been struck.
Aarav took a step forward.
"But I'm still here."
The Echo Field pulsed.
"I made mistakes."
Another step.
"I carry guilt."
Another.
"I hurt. I regret. I fall apart."
The echoes' shapes flickered violently.
Aarav lifted his chin.
"But I'm still choosing to move forward."
Silence.
Then the first echo—
the little boy—
let go of his broken toy.
It dissolved into light.
One by one,
the other echoes shattered,
breaking into soft particles that drifted upward
like sparks rising into a night sky.
The canyon brightened.
Older Aarav exhaled shakily.
"You did it."
Aarav wiped his face. "No. I just told the truth."
Older Aarav gave a tired smile.
"That's more than I ever managed."
The last echo vanished—
—and a new opening appeared at the far end of the canyon.
Wide.
Dark.
Waiting.
Aarav steadied himself.
Older Aarav stepped forward beside him.
"This," he said quietly,
"is where the Vale takes you when you understand guilt."
Aarav swallowed. "What comes next?"
Older Aarav's face hardened.
"Anger."
The canyon hummed with warning.
Aarav stepped forward.
And the Echo Field let him go.
"The quiet found him gently, as if learning how to rest against him."