The Weaver of Echoes (1)

slap!

It's pretty audible.
And then...

You hear footsteps.
Also the sound of he door that creak open. A familiar presence.

Professor Areldine enters.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice carrying that usual quiet certainty.

“Yeah...” you reply, short and dull, as the faint warmth in your cheek pulses.

Why did this happen?
You know the answer. Of course you do.
And so does all of you.

From the corner of your eye, you steal glances at the culprit—the one responsible for that... throbbing heat on your face.

A woman.
Striking, in a way that made you instinctively straighten your posture the first time you saw her.
Early thirties, maybe a little older. Blonde hair. Sharp eyes. A face carved by symmetry and time.
High cheekbones. Defined jawline. A chin that knew what it wanted.
Not the kind of woman you could easily ignore.

Not the kind of slap you’d forget soon, either.

The professor looks at you for a moment. Says nothing.

Silence.
Brief, but heavy.
His eyes drift—inevitably—to the red imprint still glowing on your cheek. The shape of a hand.

“Explain what happened to you.”

You stare back at him, unsure where to begin.

“No,” he adds, “I mean what happened to you yesterday.”

Ah.
So that’s what he meant.

You tell him everything.

The ill-fated date with Ophal Alphea.
Walking her home.
The fog, thick and wrong.
The attacker.
The chase.
The sewer.

All of it, laid bare like a confession whispered through broken breath.

All of it—except one thing.
The memory.

The memory of the brooch
The nun’s hand reaching you, entrusting the brooch.

You don’t tell them.

Not him. Nor her.
Because no matter how warm their voices or how familiar their eyes might seem to this body…
They’re strangers to you.

"This confirms it," Professor says, tone clipped. "They were preparing something. A ritual, or worse... whatever it is, it’s bad."

Yeah. No shit.
But now it's your turn.

"Who are you people?" you ask, eyes narrowing.

Your gut hums. Instinct whispering beneath the surface, this isn’t random. They're part of something. Organized. The Professor, the woman, all of them.

"Allow me," the blonde woman cuts in, smooth and practiced.

"I’m an Inquisitor. From the Church of Eternal."

The name strikes a chord.
Not yours, his.
Memories from the body you wear float up like oil on water.

The Church of Eternal,
One of the Two Great Faiths of Maressia continents.
They worship something called The Bloom Eternal.

“The name is Irene Adler,” she continues.

Irene Adler? Of course it is. The name slides into your mind like a blade into: old velvet, familiar, fiction-born, wrapped in smoke and fame. You’ve read that book.

"I'm currently assigned here for a matter related to the Peters Street case," she said, glancing sideways at Professor Areldine. "And while I’m here, I thought I’d pay an old friend a visit and share a few pieces of information with him."

So you were the source of that intel?

"And by coincidence, you just happen to arrive, riddled with holes and soaked in blood—fresh off a brush with death... directly tied to the very thing I’m investigating."

Yeah. A mad coincidence. And by some cosmic joke, you also happen to look like the Professor’s secret lover. Heh.

“It’s a miracle,” she says, voice cutting through the sterile air. “A Bearer who hasn’t even carved their Glyph surviving an attack from a Mid-Stage Bearer. I heard from the Professor, you only took Lumen Infusum two weeks ago, right? Maybe it’s settled into your system completely. Maybe it’s time you carve your Glyph.”

Glyph?

The word rattles in your skull—strange, sharp. She’s said it twice now, each time like you should know exactly what it means.

"What is Glyph?"

“A symbol of a contract,” Professor Areldine cuts in voice dry, clipped, final.
You feel his stare more than see it.
“In exchange for power, you forge a pact with the constellations. A contract. One binding rule, like swearing to not eat meat for the rest of your life. The further you go, the deeper the bond. More rules. More power. More of you... given away.”
He pauses.
“And they never  forget.”

Isn’t this a little too close to a deal with the devil? This world, it reeks of something vile.

“Do I really have to carve this Glyph?”

They both look at you. Not with surprise. With disappointment. As if you just asked whether breathing is optional.

“If you’re aiming for a short and glorious death, feel free not to,” Irene mutters, voice dipped in sarcasm.

“It’s necessary,” the Professor says, clinical and cold. “For survival. And for the project.”

Oh. This again.

Why does that word 'project' always rattle you when it comes out of his mouth?

“Maybe it’s best if you carve your Glyph right after this. Considering how you were last time… that was a dangerous state. Would be ideal if a Constellation with an Archetype aligned to defense or offense takes notice of you.”

Takes notice?
So you don’t get to choose which Constellation you want.

"Yes, and by pure coincidence, I just happen to have the necessary material," Irene says, pulling out a small vial—dust swirled inside it, purple and yellow like bruised starlight.

"Given the circumstances, we may as well start now," she adds.

What?

Before you can protest, she pops the cap off the bottle. The dust inside stirs, dancing unnaturally, as if puppeteered by something ancient. The lights in the room flicker out—snuffed like candles in the wind.

Then: her finger presses to your forehead.

A cold sensation crawls down your skull. It slithers into your spine, wraps around your ribs, nests in your gut.

“Repeat after me,” she says.

"The Great Constellations of the Astral Realm."

Your mouth moves without thinking:

"The Great Constellations of the Astral Realm..."

The dust escapes the bottle, now orbiting your body, tiny stars awakening.

"The Ruler of Arcane."

"The Ruler of Arcane."

"The saviour of Humanity, the will of Cosmos!"

"The saviour of Humanity, the will of Cosmos!"

And then—

You're thrown out.

Torn from your body. You watch yourself, sitting on that bed, motionless, mouth still echoing the last words.

Holy hell. Am I dead?!

Then the fall comes. Weightless. A spiraling descent or... Ascent? You can’t tell. All sense of direction is shredded.

The stars bloom around you.

A million suns, galaxies unfolding like paper, an astral ocean without edge or floor. You're floating. Not flying, but.... floating. Gravity has been denied.

Then—light.

A blazing presence behind you, hotter than thought, louder than any truth you’ve ever known.

"Don’t look back..." a voice echoes—distant, familiar.
Irene.

You grip your instincts tight. That voice carries warning, not metaphor. You obey. You don’t turn. You don’t feed the curiosity clawing at your spine.

Then you're thrown back.

A sharp pull—no, not pull. Displacement.

"You arrive in another space."

"White sky above, black void below. A reversal. No horizon. Just contrast. A sea of monochrome stars surrounds you, blinking like old television static. Some cold. Some hot. All silent."

"Wait!"

"Too late. You’ve already said it.
But not with your mouth."

"You hear your thoughts. Loud. Deafening."
"No, louder than that. Echoing like cathedral bells struck from inside your own skull."
"If there were millions here, they’d hear them too."
"No secrets. No filters. No distance between the you and the you-you-keep-hidden."

What the fuck. "You said"
"Where your mind becomes an amplifier and your guilt becomes language."

This place is bizarre. "You said again."

Then your body is thrown again—this time, harder.

Your weight crashes into silence. No stars. No light. No sound. Only a feeling, sinking. As if the void itself is swallowing your form, pulling you into a realm without definition. A place that feels like the inside of a closed eye.

Then—noise.

"Ahskhskhwidhwidhiewhfewofowfwofwpdpaj["

You can't understand it. It’s a mess of broken syllables and collapsing thoughts. But it doesn’t stop.

Another voice layers on top of the first. Then another. Then another.

"Kajjajakjishdiwgi ofiuehifhwifhwefihhewo—"

It builds. Loud. Louder. An avalanche of sound and shattered language, overlapping, twisting, becoming a storm of pain—until it feels like your skull is about to crack from the pressure.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Millions.

All screaming, whispering, crying, begging until the sheer volume becomes unbearable.

And then,

Silence.

One voice cuts through the chaos, as clear as water over broken glass:

"I'm sorry..."

And everything else vanishes.