The Infinite Well

The Vale of Echoes lay veiled behind fog-thick forests and moss-laden canyons. Few dared enter its domain—not for fear of monsters or stormlords, but because the Vale spoke.

It whispered.

Not with words exactly, but with remnants—echoes of memory, fragments of thought, impressions so deep they carved themselves into the soul.

Many went in.

Few returned with their minds whole.

But David pressed forward.

The Eye of Accord pulsed steadily now, its rhythm aligned with something ancient buried beneath the vale. He didn't know what it was—only that it called to him.

Not with urgency.

But with recognition.

By the second day of travel, the path disappeared entirely.

The forest floor became a woven carpet of roots and moss, damp and silent beneath his steps. Great trees arched high above, their trunks wider than houses, their branches bending toward each other like old friends in prayer.

It was quiet here.

Unnaturally so.

No birds.

No wind.

Only the sound of his own breathing—and the faint murmur of voices not his own.

Sometimes, they whispered things he recognized.

Other times… things he had yet to know.

At a fallen stone bridge, David met the first guardian.

A woman stood upon it, barefoot, hair cascading like waterfalls of black silk. Her eyes were covered by a linen band, and her skin shimmered faintly, as though light avoided touching her directly.

He stopped.

So did she.

"I seek the heart of the Vale," David said.

She tilted her head. "Then offer it yours."

He blinked.

"Your heart," she repeated. "Unshaped by pride. Unstained by fear."

David stepped forward, lowering his defenses—not in posture, but in soul. He let the Well still. Let his breath settle.

And in that stillness, he opened himself.

She smiled.

Then vanished.

The bridge held his weight.

Beyond it, the trees thinned into a field of white flowers that shimmered with mana like dew. He walked slowly, letting the scent of the blooms guide his breath. Here, he heard the whispers more clearly—not ominous, not maddening.

But… familiar.

"David…"

It was his mother's voice.

From long ago, when she had still sung to him under the shade of the olive tree near their village.

He stopped.

Another voice now.

Leira's.

Softer.

"Keep walking."

He passed through the field and into a glade of mirrors—not glass, but polished stone, perfectly smooth. They showed moments. Battles. Failures. Triumphs. Choices.

In one, he saw himself hesitating—hesitating when Maelin first offered him the sword.

In another, he saw himself weeping beside a fire, body broken after his first real loss.

None of the mirrors lied.

But none judged either.

He looked at each.

Acknowledged them.

And walked on.

Deeper still, at the heart of the vale, stood the Shrine of Echoes.

A single dome of green jade, half-buried in vines and time. Around it, seven statues formed a circle—none with faces, only the outlines of those who had once sought truth.

As David entered the shrine, the Well pulsed erratically—not in resistance, but in sync.

Something here remembered him.

Or rather—remembered the first Wellborn.

Inside, an altar stood carved with runes so old even the Eye of Accord hesitated.

He placed his palm on it.

The moment he did, the world folded.

He was standing in the past.

But not his own.

A city—once brilliant, now falling to ruin—surrounded him. Fire tore through its spires. Cries echoed in the distance. And in the sky, a rift poured forth Hollow like tar bleeding from a wound.

At the city's center, a man stood alone—hands outstretched, body broken, but defiant.

He bore the mark of the Well.

David realized:

This was the First.

The vision showed no words, only feelings. The First Wellborn had stood against the Hollow not to win—but to remember what the world could be. He had turned his mana not into weapons, but into a record.

A memory.

A seed.

The Infinite Well.

David watched as the man poured all he was into a final gesture—planting that seed into the very stone beneath him.

Then all faded.

David opened his eyes.

The altar pulsed.

And from it, a new ability flowed into him.

Not fire.

Not lightning.

But Echo.

The art of memory woven into motion.

A technique that allowed him to channel the will of those before—to echo their skills, their forms, their hopes.

Not mimicry.

Inheritance.

The moment he stepped out of the shrine, the forest reacted.

Whispers surged louder.

Not chaotic.

Unified.

Thanking him.

But peace never lasted long.

As David exited the Vale, he saw smoke on the horizon.

The village of Jallin… was burning.

And beside it, a symbol scrawled in ash:

A hollow circle.

The Hollow had found him again.

And this time, it wasn't sending monsters.

It was sending mirrors.