The dawn didn't break over Thornwick; it simply shifted the amber light from deep gold to a pale, hazy yellow. The sky fractures remained, a static web of crystallized energy hanging over the valley like a cracked glass ceiling.
Arlen woke in the hayloft of his father's barn, the smell of dry straw and old iron grounding him before he even opened his eyes. For a moment, he expected to hear the scream of a fracture or the thrum of a shadow. Instead, he heard the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of a hammer on an anvil.
He sat up, rubbing his face. His right arm—the one etched with the dark ivy patterns—felt cool, almost numb, until he clenched his fist. Then, a low hum vibrated through his bones, syncing perfectly with the distant hammer strikes.
It's listening, Arlen realized. The corruption wasn't just a scar; it was an antenna.
He climbed down the ladder and walked out into the cool morning air. The village was already awake. People moved with a quiet, focused intensity. There was no panic, but there was no laughter either. Everyone had a job to do. They were reinforcing walls, gathering firewood, and stockpiling food. The Spire in the square hummed quietly, a constant reminder that their safety was artificial.
Arlen made his way to the forge. The heat hit him before he reached the door—a dry, fierce heat that smelled of coal and sweat.
His father, Bram, stood at the anvil, shaping a piece of glowing steel. He didn't look up as Arlen entered, but his rhythm shifted slightly, leaving a space in the beat for Arlen to speak.
"You're up early," Bram said, plunging the steel into a bucket of oil. Steam hissed violently, smelling of sulfur.
"Didn't sleep much," Arlen admitted, leaning against a workbench. He looked at the tools hanging on the wall—tongs, hammers, chisels. They looked fragile now. Mundane. "Pa, regular steel isn't going to cut it against the Echoes. Even if we sharpen it, the resonance just shatters the blade."
Bram wiped his brow with a soot-stained rag. "I figured as much. Saw a man try to stab one of those shade-things with a pitchfork yesterday. The metal bent like wet clay." He looked at Arlen, his eyes sharp under bushy gray brows. "But you have an idea."
Arlen looked at his dark-veined hand. "I think... I think I can treat the metal. If I can push some of this resonance into the steel while it's hot, maybe it won't break when it hits a Hunter."
Bram didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. He just nodded and grabbed a pair of tongs. He pulled a fresh billet of iron from the coals, glowing a cherry red.
"Strike while the iron is hot, son."
Arlen stepped up to the anvil. He picked up a heavy cross-peen hammer. It felt light in his hand, his Strength stat making the weight negligible. He took a breath, focusing on the dark resonance in his arm. He didn't try to fight it; he tried to guide it, imagining it flowing down his shoulder, through his elbow, and into the hammer's head.
Flow, he thought. Don't consume. Reinforce.
He struck.
CLANG.
The sound wasn't the sharp ring of steel on steel. It was a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated the tools on the walls. A spark of violet-black energy flew from the impact point, sizzling as it hit the floor.
"Again," Bram said, watching the metal closely.
Arlen struck again. And again. With each hit, he poured a little more of the filtered corruption into the iron. The metal didn't just flatten; it changed. The cherry-red glow deepened to a sullen, bruised purple. The grain of the iron seemed to tighten, knitting together in a pattern that mimicked the ivy on Arlen's arm.
System Alert: Crafting Anomaly Detected.
Skill Unlocked: Echo Forging (Rank F).
Item Created: Resonance-Infused Iron Billet.
Properties: Durability +20%, Echo Resistance +10%.
Arlen lowered the hammer, breathing hard. The billet on the anvil was cooling, but it still hummed with a faint, dark energy.
Bram whistled low. "That's not iron anymore, Arlen. That's something else."
"It's a start," Arlen said, wiping sweat from his eyes. "We can make arrowheads. Spear tips. Maybe plating for the walls."
"We'll get to work then," Bram said. "But you... you aren't staying to make arrowheads, are you?"
Arlen looked out the open door of the forge, toward the North. The sensation he had felt last night—the metallic, rhythmic thrum—was still there. It felt like a beacon.
"No," Arlen said quietly. "I can't stay. The Spire is holding, but the Watcher said this was just a delay. If we want to actually stop the Splintering, I need to find the source of that signal."
Bram nodded slowly. He reached into a crate under the workbench and pulled out something wrapped in oilcloth.
"I made this while you were gone," Bram said, handing it to him. "Before the world went crazy. Was going to be a birthday gift, but... well."
Arlen unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a short-sword, heavy and broad-bladed, with a simple leather grip. It wasn't infused with magic, but the craftsmanship was flawless. The balance was perfect.
"It's just steel," Bram said. "But it's good steel. Maybe you can do your... thing... to it."
Arlen gripped the hilt. He pushed a pulse of resonance into the blade. The steel shivered, drinking the energy, and a faint, geometric pattern etched itself along the fuller.
"Thanks, Pa," Arlen said, his voice thick.
"Go," Bram said, turning back to the fire. "Before I change my mind and try to lock you in the cellar."
An hour later, Arlen stood at the northern gate of the village. Mira, Lysa, and Rowan were waiting for him. They looked rested, though Lysa still wore the heavy wool blanket like a shield.
"You look like you've been fighting a dragon," Mira noted, eyeing the soot on Arlen's face.
"Fighting an anvil," Arlen corrected. He showed them the short-sword strapped to his belt. "And winning."
"So," Rowan said, adjusting the straps of a large pack filled with supplies. "Where are we going? You mentioned a signal."
"North," Arlen said, pointing toward the mountain range that bordered the valley. "Past the Whispering Woods. There's something up there. It feels... mechanical. Organized."
Lysa stiffened. "North? That's toward the Iron Pass."
"You know it?" Arlen asked.
"I know stories," Lysa said, her voice tight. "Before the fractures, there were rumors of a facility up there. A Deep-Earth station. People said the government was digging for something they shouldn't have found."
"The Lattice," Mira whispered. "If they were digging into the earth, maybe they hit the physical infrastructure of the Echo Realm."
"Or maybe they built something to try and control it," Arlen added. "The Watcher talked about a 'Key.' If there's a facility designed to interact with the Echo, that might be where we find out what he meant."
Rowan looked at the looming mountains. The peaks were shrouded in the same amber haze as the rest of the world, but the clouds up there looked darker, heavier. "It's a long walk. And the woods in between are crawling with Shades."
"We have new gear," Arlen said, tapping his sword. "We have new skills. And for the first time, we aren't just running away. We're going to find answers."
Lysa looked at the village one last time—at the Spire, at the people moving safely under its light. Then she turned to Arlen.
"The resonance," she said softly. "The one you're hearing. Is it friendly?"
Arlen paused. He closed his eyes and let the sensation wash over him. It wasn't warm like the village, and it wasn't cold like the Shadow. It was precise. Coldly logical. Indifferent.
"No," Arlen said, opening his eyes. "I don't think it's friendly. But it's loud. And right now, loud is the only lead we have."
He stepped through the gate.
"Let's go."
As they left the safety of the amber light, the System chimed one final update for the region.
Region Departed: Thornwick Valley (Stabilized).
Entering Region: The Whispering Woods.
Threat Level: High.
Resonance Interference: Rising.
The road ahead disappeared into the trees, and the shadows stretched out to meet them.