The Weaver of Echoes (2)

What?

It hits you like a whisper through fog, that voice. A woman’s voice, full of regret, familiar in a way you can't name. You don’t know her. Not in this life. Not in the one before. But something about it pierces you, cuts under the ribs.

“I’m sorry…”

It echoes inside you, leaving a hollow.

Then ground. Your feet touch something solid, yet clear. A transparent surface beneath you, like standing on glass suspended in the cosmos. Slowly, the void brightens. Pinpricks of light scatter around you, like eyes waking up in the dark.

Stars.

Then more.

They connect fine, shimmering lines drawing paths between each other. Constellations bloom before your eyes, dancing across the sky like divine mathematics. You don’t recognize a single one. Neither do the scraps of memory that belonged to the man, former owner of this body. Even though he was obsessed with this kind of stuff.

You look at your right hand.

A chill slides down your skin like icewater through veins. Then, pain? No. Something subtler. A sting of permanence.

Blue light burns beneath the skin. A symbol begins to carve itself onto your flesh, slowly, deliberately.

A circle. But not whole. Its ends taper like a crescent moon left unfinished. Inside it, three spiraling lines twist toward a single point, like a flowing triskele drawn by an artist who preferred rhythm over symmetry. Each spiral is threaded with fine segments, like strands of silk. One thread breaks away, crawling up the back of your hand, weaving itself into the unseen.

At the center, nested between the spirals, a closed eye, tear dripping from the corner, carving a line all the way down to your wrist.

It’s beautiful. And it aches.

“Good,” Irene’s voice returns, softer now. Inside your head, but echoing like a voice in a cathedral.
“Now think, one thing. One rule you’ll never break, for the rest of your life.”

A chain? A contract?

You know this part matters.

The stillness stretches. Thought folds in on itself.

Then... a spark.

A single vow rises, not from memory, but from hunger.

“I will remember my past.”

Your voice cuts through the ether, and with it, everything changes.

"So it's done."
The glyph on your hand glows with a brilliance that leaves no room for doubt. 

The contract is sealed.

"I was thrown into this world. Memories scattered."

This glyph, this vow, this anchor... it was your way of stitching your soul back together.
"I needed to remember who I was before I return. All of me. Not just a name or face"

The pull comes suddenly, like a tide crashing inward. Your body feels weightless, your thoughts pulled taut like thread in a loom.

You don’t walk. You’re drawn, no, ripped, from the seams of this otherworld, sucked back through the veil separating realities.

And then,

You wake up.
The real world greets you like an old friend you barely remember. But you’re still you.

“Welcome back,” Irene says, her voice like a ripple through the veil you just returned from.

You blink. Your body still feels light, no—! hollow, like someone stuffed your soul back in too quickly.

“Well done. You’ve successfully etched your Glyph,” Professor Areldine adds, stepping closer.
His eyes settle on your hand, the one still faintly glowing with that astral brand.
“From the look of it… it’s from The Weaver of Echoes.”

The Weaver of Echoes?
You repeat the name aloud, it tastes strange in your mouth, like something old, forgotten.

“A deity worshipped in the continent of Maressia,” he continues. “Uncommon. I expected a bond with one of the Constellations of Onzharin or Veltannia. Still… it doesn’t matter. Everything’s moving along nicely.”

Here it comes again. That word.
He says it like he’s talking about the weather.

“We’re one step closer to our project.”

You sigh. Loudly this time. Not again.

“Ugh, Professor… this project… is it going to be dangerous?”

He stops. Looks at you, not with suspicion, but mild concern. As if trying to remember who you are, or whether you’ve always been this… hesitant.

“Perhaps the side effect of the Glyph contract is scrambling your cognition,” he mutters.
Then, louder:
“The purpose of our project is to uncover truths about the Astral Cosmos. Whether that’s dangerous or not is… well, inconclusive. But you’ve already agreed to assist despite any risk.”

Perfect.
He’s built the excuse for you. No questions asked. He doesn’t know the real you is someone else entirely.

Still, the word project is no longer just a vague threat, it’s anchored now. Astral Cosmos. It’s something.
You’ll need to check the previous host’s journals once you return to the inn.

“Since everything went smoothly, take the rest of the day off. Don’t come to the university,” the Professor says.
Finally, a good idea.

You nod. Yes, please.

"Oh, one more thing," Mrs. Adler — yes, you’ll call her that from now on.
"Since you've reached the Skyborn stage, your body will undergo some changes. It's natural."

You glance at her, wary.

"Changes?"
What kind of changes? Shrinking? Enlarged skull? Glowing eyes?

"Yes. But don't worry. Bearers tied to The Weaver of Echoes rarely exhibit major physical transformations."

That “rarely” does a lot of work in that sentence.

But still… you can’t help asking, "So... if I'd made a pact with a different constellation, I could’ve... changed?"

She smirks, just slightly.
"Yes. Some do. Quite drastically."

Great.
Now you have to worry about growing feathers or horns next time.

"Before you leave, you may change your clothes," Mrs. Adler says, Her eyes flick briefly toward the desk beside the bed.

You follow her gaze. A folded set of clothes rests there.

You look at her again, in a new lights.

Then you look at yourself.

The blood on your shirt is dry and flaked like rust on old steel. Crimson crusts down your sleeves and across your chest. It smells faintly of metal and regret. And yet... the pain is gone.

You raise your hand, expecting to wince. Nothing. No sting. No throb. Just clean, unbroken skin where wounds should be. Not even a scar. 

You had a hunch that it's her power that heals you!

After a bid of farewell, you step outside the building.

You’ve been here before. No—! he’s been here. 

This place… is the residence of Professor Areldine. A quiet, crumbling estate that smells of dust, ink, and a thousand failed theories.

Dawn has long since torn through the horizon. You missed it. Not that it matters. You have somewhere to be.

Your rented room.

You need to tear it apart. There might be notes, his notes, left behind. Scraps of thought. Maps of half-remembered truths.

And then there's that memory. A glint. A brooch, yes, that brooch. Transparent, star-shaped, etched with reverence. You need to find it—!