Morning came without ceremony.
Lior woke to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside his door—measured, familiar, moving with the unspoken rhythm of a city that had learned to survive quietly. Valdoria never truly slept. It merely lowered its voice.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. The faint discoloration near the corner looked like a continent drifting apart, a fracture frozen mid-motion. He had stared at it often enough to know every line.
The night hadn't been restless, but it hadn't been kind either.
Dreams came and went like half-remembered conversations—faces without names, words without meaning. Nothing vivid enough to cling to. Nothing that felt like prophecy or warning. Just weight.
He exhaled slowly and sat up.
The Veil was there.
Not visible. Not tangible. But present in the same way gravity was present—unquestioned, unavoidable. It wrapped around his perception, dampening things he could never quite define. Sounds felt distant, even when close. Emotions arrived muted, as if filtered through water.
He rubbed his face and stood.
Outside, Valdoria was already alive.
The city rose in layered terraces, stone and steel woven together by generations of necessity. Banners marked districts—not nations, not factions, but functions. Trade. Residence. Study. Authority. The old emblems of kingdoms had been worn down, repurposed into municipal symbols that meant efficiency rather than pride.
Lior stepped into the street.
People passed him without looking twice. A woman balancing a crate of echo-conductive glass. A pair of children arguing over a wooden charm shaped like a spearhead—cheap replicas of artifacts they would never touch.
Above them all, the Watchtowers loomed.
They were not fortresses. They were not prisons.
They were reminders.
Every citizen knew what the towers were for, even if no one spoke it aloud. Echo assessments. Artifact monitoring. Containment, when necessary.
Lior adjusted the strap of his bag and headed toward the lower quarter.
---
The Echo Hall stood at the edge of the district, half public, half forbidden.
Anyone could enter. Not everyone left the same.
Inside, the air felt heavier. Not oppressive—expectant. Lines were etched into the floor in concentric circles, each one marking a stage of resonance testing. The walls were layered with inscriptions from multiple eras, some polished and precise, others rough and scarred.
Lior wasn't here to awaken.
Not today.
He took a seat near the far wall, observing.
A boy stood at the center of the circle, no older than fourteen. His hands trembled as the examiner—a woman with silver-threaded sleeves—activated the focus stone.
"Breathe," she said calmly. "Don't force it."
The stone hummed.
Once.
Twice.
Then silence.
The boy's shoulders slumped.
No echo.
Murmurs rippled through the room—not mockery, not pity. Something worse. Acceptance.
The examiner nodded once. "Thank you for trying."
That was all.
No consolation. No explanation. No second attempt.
The boy walked past Lior without meeting his eyes.
This was the part no one talked about.
Not everyone awakened an Echo.
It wasn't about worth. Or effort. Or belief. Some people simply… didn't resonate. Their presence failed to align with any echo frequency the world recognized.
They weren't broken.
But they were limited.
Lior's fingers curled slightly.
He understood that silence too well.
---
Later, at the market, the conversation shifted the way it always did—casually, carefully.
"They say three failed awakenings this week."
"Lower quarter?"
"Two. One in the north."
A pause.
"That's too many."
"Maybe. Or maybe we're noticing it more."
Lior pretended to examine a rack of metal clasps while listening.
"Concord hasn't said anything."
"They never do."
That name always lowered voices.
The Concord didn't rule. They oversaw. A word that implied distance and impartiality, even when neither was true. Their presence was subtle—policies framed as protections, restrictions justified as stability.
Artifacts were registered. Echo-bearers were categorized. Deviations were monitored.
For the good of the world.
At least, that was the line.
Lior moved on.
---
By midday, he reached his home.
The building was old, pre-standardization, its layout irregular in a way newer structures weren't allowed to be. The stairwell creaked under his weight, each step sounding like a memory refusing to fade.
Inside his room, he shut the door and leaned against it.
Silence.
This was where the Veil felt strongest.
Not heavier—closer.
He sat at the small desk near the window, resting his forearms against the worn wood. Outside, a banner flapped lazily in the breeze, its symbol faded enough to be meaningless.
He closed his eyes.
He did not try to awaken anything.
That was important.
The few times he had tried—years ago—nothing had happened. No surge. No resonance. No failure dramatic enough to label.
Just… absence.
And yet, sometimes, in moments like this, he felt something press back. Not power. Not presence.
Resistance.
As if the world were gently but firmly telling him: Not yet.
Lior opened his eyes.
"Then when?" he muttered.
The Veil did not answer.
---
That evening, he met with Kael near the riverwalk.
Kael leaned against the stone railing, posture loose, eyes sharp. His Echo—whatever its nature—always seemed close to the surface, like a second heartbeat just beneath the skin.
"You look like you spent the day thinking," Kael said.
"I did."
"Dangerous habit."
Lior snorted quietly. "Anyone get taken?"
Kael shook his head. "No. But the Watch doubled patrols near the Hall."
"That's never a good sign."
"No," Kael agreed. "Means someone's nervous."
They watched the water flow beneath the bridges, reflecting the city lights in fractured patterns.
"Do you ever wonder," Kael said slowly, "what happens to people who never awaken?"
"All the time."
"They live," Kael continued. "Work. Age. Die. The world doesn't collapse."
"But it also doesn't change," Lior said.
Kael glanced at him. "You think Echoes are what move the world?"
"No," Lior replied. "I think Echoes are what reveal where it's already moving."
Kael studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You say things like that, and people start asking questions."
"Good."
"That's how people disappear."
The smile faded.
They stood in silence again.
---
That night, alone once more, Lior stood by his window.
The city stretched endlessly beyond, layered and complex, a monument to compromises made long before he was born. Gods were myths. Artifacts were regulated. Echoes were controlled.
And still… something felt unfinished.
He placed a hand against his chest.
The Veil stirred—not reacting, not resisting.
Waiting.
Whatever tomorrow brought—awakening or silence, revelation or restraint—it would not be gentle.
Lior already knew that.
He turned away from the window and extinguished the light.
The world outside kept moving.
And somewhere beneath its measured order, something ancient and patient shifted—unnoticed, for now.