The path was a river of silence.
No sky above. No earth below. Just a bridge suspended in endless dusk—woven from strands of memory, each one humming with a different sorrow.
Raen walked barefoot now.
His boots had turned to ash somewhere between folds. The Threadrift had taken them as tax.
With each step, his skin met the living bridge. Every thread whispered.
His mother's voice, before her execution.
His first kill.
The weight of Lyra's hand in his.
Memories, gentle and brutal.
He clenched the thread Lyra's laughter had become. It pulsed warm in his fist, a rare, living light.
Ahead, the Gate waited.
Not a door. Not a monument.
A wound.
It floated in the dusk like a tear in the world itself. An eye-shaped gash, seeping golden ichor that never touched the bridge. It throbbed in rhythm with something ancient. Something asleep.
Raen slowed.
The Gate noticed him.
It turned.
Not physically, not visually—but spiritually. Like a mind within it had locked onto his heartbeat.
His demonmark pulsed once.
His memories writhed.
The bridge behind him frayed, refusing retreat.
Then the Gate spoke.
But not in words.
It remembered at him.
He was drowning in visions again.
—
A girl, sobbing beside a cradle.
A knife held with trembling hands.
A throne of mouths, screaming his name in seven languages he never learned.
—
Raen gritted his teeth.
"No," he hissed. "Not again."
He shoved the thread of Lyra's laughter forward.
It caught flame in his palm, crackling like divine kindling.
The Gate recoiled. A pulse of windless pressure swept across the bridge. The dusk shuddered.
Then—
A whisper.
Not spoken. Shared.
"If you still carry love, step forward. But know it will cost you its echo."
Raen looked at the burning thread.
He knew what it meant.
To pass, he would have to give it up. Not forget Lyra—but give up the memory's strength. The echo of that feeling. The comfort.
He could still remember her.
But it would no longer feel like hers.
He hesitated.
Then stepped forward.
The memory thread unraveled in his grip, turning to gold dust that kissed his skin once before dissolving into the Gate.
It opened.
No creak. No sound.
It peeled—like skin parting for a blade.
Raen stepped through.
And into light.
---
He awoke on a mountainside.
Real soil. Real cold. Real sky.
He blinked rapidly.
Was this another fold?
But the air tasted… honest.
He looked around.
Mist curled around pine trees. A stream murmured nearby. Birds—not echoes, actual birds—chirped in the canopy.
And then—laughter.
Children's laughter.
Raen rose, dizzy.
Was this real?
He followed the sound.
And found a village.
Wooden houses. Laundry lines. Faces. People.
One woman was braiding a child's hair. An old man chopped wood. A one-eyed blacksmith waved at him without concern.
Raen stood still.
None of them saw the mark on his arm. None reacted to the divine scars across his soul.
He touched the edge of a dream.
And it didn't vanish.
A girl approached him.
Small, barefoot, missing two fingers.
Whisper.
But older.
"You made it through," she said, smiling.
Raen stared.
"You… you were a child in the last fold."
"Time's strange here," she replied. "And the Gate's fold leads to a place built from survivors."
"This isn't the Threadrift?"
"It is," she said, voice gentle. "But this is what's left of the people it couldn't break. Welcome to Hollowrest."
Raen said nothing for a long moment.
He looked at the people.
So many broken, scarred, smiling faces.
"Why are they smiling?" he finally asked.
"Because we forgot how to hate," she said. "And because the ones who remember… protect us."
She gestured toward the edge of the village.
Raen followed.
There, beyond the fields, loomed a monolith. Black. Carved in language he didn't recognize. And impaled on its spire was something massive—decayed, celestial.
A god's corpse.
Wings torn. Eyes hollow.
Raen approached it slowly.
It was beautiful in a way. Sad. Still humming with quiet power.
"The first to fall," Whisper said behind him. "He tried to enter Hollowrest. But he couldn't let go of his divinity."
"And what happened?"
Raen looked up.
"He was unmade."
Whisper nodded. "The village exists because of that death. Because someone stronger than us made a stand here once."
Raen stared at the god's corpse.
Then looked back at the village.
A place that had survived.
Not by killing.
Not by conquest.
But by remembering joy.
By refusing to fracture the things that mattered.
He let the silence fill him.
And for the first time in what felt like a thousand echoes—
He felt human again.
---
[LORD APPENDIX – Hollowrest & The Concept of Echoburn]
Hollowrest: A settlement deep within the Threadrift where fractured souls and survivors gather. Built around the corpse of a forgotten god, it acts as a sanctuary for those who retain their core humanity. Time moves irregularly. Wounds of the soul can begin to heal here—but only if the person allows them to.
Echoburn: The cost of using powerful emotional memories to bypass fold-gates or divine barriers. When a memory is Echo-burned, it remains in the mind but loses its emotional impact—becoming dull, almost like a story told by someone else. A necessary sacrifice for deeper progression in the Threadrift.
---
To be continued…