Echoes of the End

The day their parents disappeared was etched into Eleanor's mind like the jagged lines of the Obelisk—impossible to forget, even as the years dulled the sharp edges of the pain. She had been just nine years old, still young enough to believe that her parents were invincible, but old enough to feel the weight of their absence like a stone in her chest.

It had been an ordinary morning. The air in Blackthorn was thick with mist, as always, and the faint scent of damp earth wafted through the open windows of the Thorncroft estate. Eleanor remembered the way sunlight struggled to pierce the grey shroud, casting a pale glow across the breakfast table where she and Lena sat, waiting for their parents to join them.

"Do you think they'll bring back something from the market?" Lena, barely six at the time, had asked, her hazel eyes bright with anticipation.

Eleanor had shrugged, her attention fixed on the book she'd borrowed from the library. Even at that age, she had been drawn to the strange and mysterious—old tales of cursed relics, forgotten gods, and ancient ruins. "Maybe," she replied absently. "Father usually brings sweets, doesn't he?"

Their mother had appeared then, her face pale but her smile warm. She ruffled Lena's auburn hair and kissed Eleanor on the forehead. "Be good, both of you," she'd said, her voice soft but firm. "We won't be gone long."

Eleanor had glanced up, frowning at the faint tremor in her mother's hands as she adjusted her shawl. "Where are you going?"

"Just to check on something," their mother had replied, avoiding Eleanor's gaze. "Your father and I will be back before supper."

But they hadn't come back.

The first few hours of their absence hadn't worried Eleanor. Adults were always saying one thing and doing another, she'd reasoned. Perhaps they'd been delayed, or perhaps they'd decided to visit a neighbor. But as the day wore on and the shadows lengthened, unease began to creep in.

By nightfall, the unease had turned to fear. The house, so full of life that morning, felt impossibly large and empty. Lena had clung to Eleanor's arm, her small fingers digging into her sister's skin as they sat by the fire, waiting for the sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside.

"Do you think they're alright?" Lena whispered, her voice trembling.

Eleanor didn't answer immediately. She stared into the flickering flames, her mind racing. "They're fine," she said at last, though she didn't believe it. "Father's probably just… talking to someone. You know how he gets."

But the words felt hollow, and Lena's wide eyes told her that her sister wasn't convinced.

The search began the next morning. The villagers were hesitant at first, muttering about the thickening fog and the strange hum that seemed to emanate from the Obelisk. But Eleanor had stood in the square, her small frame trembling with anger and desperation, and demanded their help.

"They wouldn't leave us," she'd insisted, her voice cracking. "Something's happened. We have to find them."

The search party had scoured the woods and the fields, their lanterns cutting through the mist. They'd found nothing—no footprints, no sign of struggle, no clue as to where the Thorncrofts had gone. It was as though they'd simply vanished.

Days turned into weeks, and the search was eventually abandoned. The villagers returned to their routines, their pitying glances following Eleanor and Lena wherever they went. The Thorncroft estate, once a hub of activity, grew quiet and still. Dust settled on the furniture, and the air grew heavy with the weight of unspoken grief.

Eleanor tried to be strong for Lena. She cooked their meals, mended their clothes, and read to her sister by the fire each night. But in the quiet moments, when Lena was asleep and the house was dark, Eleanor allowed herself to cry. She cried for her parents, for the life they'd lost, and for the questions that haunted her.

Why had they left so suddenly? What had they been searching for? And why did it feel like the Obelisk was watching her, its dark surface glinting faintly in the moonlight?

One night, weeks after their parents' disappearance, Eleanor found herself drawn to her mother's study. The room had been off-limits when her parents were home, but now it felt like the only place where she might find answers. She lit a candle and stepped inside, the faint scent of lavender and parchment enveloping her.

The desk was cluttered with papers, books, and strange artifacts. Eleanor's gaze fell on a leather-bound journal, its cover worn and its pages filled with her mother's precise handwriting. She opened it, her eyes scanning the lines of text.

The journal was filled with notes about the Obelisk—its symbols, its history, and its possible connection to the Mark. Her mother had been studying it for years, piecing together fragments of forgotten lore. But one passage, written in bold letters, stood out:

"The Mark chooses its bearers. The Obelisk watches. And when the time comes, the Gate will open."

Eleanor's hands trembled as she read the words. The Obelisk, the Mark, the Gate—they were all connected. Her parents hadn't just disappeared. They'd been searching for something, something that had taken them away.

She closed the journal and pressed it to her chest, her resolve hardening. Whatever had happened to her parents, she would find out. She would uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

The next morning, Eleanor showed the journal to Lena. Her sister's eyes widened as she read the passages, her small hands clutching the edges of the pages.

"What does it mean?" Lena asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't know," Eleanor admitted. "But I'm going to find out. For them. For us."

From that day forward, the Thorncroft sisters were inseparable. Together, they delved into their mother's research, searching for clues and unraveling the mysteries of the Obelisk and the Mark. The bond between them grew stronger, forged in the fire of shared loss and determination.

But even as they worked together, Eleanor couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching them, waiting for the moment to strike. The Obelisk loomed in the distance, its dark surface gleaming faintly in the light of the setting sun, a silent reminder of the shadows that bound them.