A chill seeped into Jorin’s bones, colder than the stone floor beneath him. He lay sprawled, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. The air tasted of stale ale and burnt copper, a familiar, unwelcome blend. Had he fallen again? Drunk himself into another stupor? He tried to sit up, groaning. “Dullard.” “Slow-wit.” Harsh voices, grating like rust on iron. They hovered above him, two faces, cruelly alike. Kaelen and Ren. The apprentice brothers from the Iron Anvil, their tunics a mismatched red and faded blue. He blinked, trying to clear the fog. “…A dream?” The word was a dry rasp, barely a whisper from his unused throat. Kaelen, the blue-clad twin, scoffed. “Water wouldn’t wake you, eh? Oakhaven’s Dullard, lost in his own stupor.” He kicked gently at Jorin’s side, more dismissive than malicious. Oakhaven’s Dullard. A name he hadn't heard in so long. A decade. The cruel moniker clung to him like burrs. A hiccup tore from Jorin’s chest. His head spun with a phantom hangover. Nothing made sense. Ren, in red, leaned down, grabbing a handful of Jorin’s coarse hair. A sharp tug. “Oakhaven’s Slow-wit,” Ren snarled, pulling Jorin’s head higher. “Our Master Elara commands! Up, you lump!” A sudden, sickening lurch in Jorin’s gut. The sensation wasn't pain. It was a visceral recall, vivid and horrifying. This moment. *This exact moment.* He knew it. Kaelen. Ren. The stench of the Iron Anvil’s common room after closing. It wasn't a dream. “Kaelen? Ren?” His voice was hoarse, alien even to himself. Kaelen released his hair, a sneer on his face. “Finally tracking with us? Why the act, Jorin? Don’t you know our Master won the wager?” Ren nodded, grinning. “Master Elara promised us extra rations. All thanks to your… talent for napping.” Unbelievable. This was real. The gritty texture of the floor against his cheek, the acrid bite of the air. The faint, high-pitched hum of the tavern’s old, structural ironwork – a dull, constant thrumming in his mind, always there, now more noticeable. Ren dangled a small, leather pouch before Jorin's eyes, jingling it. “Master thought you might be thirsty, Jorin. He prepared it. A prize for the Iron Anvil’s finest louts!” “Right,” Kaelen added, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. “Always useful.” Jorin stared at the pouch, a sudden, horrifying clarity washing over him. He had been stabbed. Blue, sickly flames had consumed him, a whisper of ash and decay. He had died, alone, a decade in the future. Now… these two louts. His former tormentors. He had to know. “What day is it?” His voice, a sudden shout, startled them. Kaelen flinched. “What in the Dross… you really are daft. It’s the cycle of the Ironmaw, of course.” Ironmaw. The old calendar. Ten years. He had truly gone back. It wasn't an illusion. A sharp sting in his scalp where Ren had pulled his hair confirmed it. The pain felt too real, too precise for a dream. “The cycle… of the Ironmaw?” He mumbled, his breath catching. “What’s wrong with you?” Ren asked, exchanging a bewildered glance with his brother. “Did you think it was the season of the Cinder-fall? Your brain’s rusted solid, hasn’t it?” Their confused faces, their familiar cruelty, somehow looked magnificent to Jorin. A tremor started in his chest, spreading through his limbs. A wetness pricked at his eyes, blurring the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling. “Uh… Jorin? Are you… crying?” Kaelen’s voice held a note of genuine confusion. He was. Tears, hot and bitter, spilled onto his cheeks. Overcome, Jorin lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Kaelen’s waist, burying his face in the boy’s cheap tunic. The metal buckle on Kaelen’s belt thrummed faintly under Jorin’s touch, a distant, muffled echo of petty greed and childish pride. “He’s truly gone mad!” Kaelen shrieked, struggling. “He’s lost it!” Ren agreed, scrambling back. Jorin clung to Kaelen, sobbing, a choked, silent laugh bubbling up from deep inside. The Cinder Wraiths, the years of servitude, the constant threat of being melted down for their gruesome magi-tech experiments, his agonizing death—all of it, now a cancelled timeline. A second chance. Kaelen shoved him away with a grunt, sending Jorin sprawling again. But the laughter didn't stop. It was a guttural, joyous sound that clawed its way from his silent throat, echoing in the quiet tavern. He lay there, laughing, tears streaming. The twins watched him, aghast. He didn’t care. The past. His past. The mundane, bitter, yet *safe* past where he was only the Dullard of Oakhaven. He would not be caught by the Cinder Wraiths again. “…Ironmaw… ahhh!” His laughter died, replaced by a sudden, fierce determination. The twins recoiled at his intensity. His surroundings barely registered. The peeling paint, the worn timbers, the empty tables. He needed to act. No one understood, no one believed. It didn’t matter. He just needed to survive. “Get out!” he rasped, struggling to his feet. The words felt rough, unused. “Both of you, run! Pack your things and leave this inn. Now. Or you’ll live like dogs in the ash.” Kaelen and Ren stared, then instinctively put hands to the worn dagger hilts at their belts. They were young, untrained, more for show than defense. But Jorin remembered their fear. Footsteps shuffled from the back. Master Elara, the innkeeper, a man with heavy-lidded eyes and a perpetually worried frown, ambled into view. He looked barely older than thirty. “Young master Jorin?” he yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Everyone’s awake now. Gods above, did you get struck by a rusted automaton?” He spotted the twins’ defensive stance, his brow furrowing. Elara was Jorin's only loyal aide, a man who had tolerated his muteness and perceived dullness, despite the Blackwood name. “Master Elara,” Jorin said, his voice gaining strength. “My things. Where are they?” “Second floor. Your room, as always.” Jorin didn't wait. He bolted for the stairs. The twins blocked his path. “Brat! You gone truly mad now?” Ren demanded, bewildered. “He’s lost his wits!” Kaelen added. No time for their foolishness. “You might think me mad,” Jorin hissed, his eyes burning with an unfamiliar fire. “But listen. Run. Go. Save yourselves. Do you want to become slag-metal for the Cult?” “What are you babbling about?” Kaelen scoffed. “We are the Iron Anvil’s finest apprentices—” Jorin moved. A blur of motion. His fist snapped out, hitting Kaelen’s nose with a sickening crack. A spray of blood. “Kuak!” Kaelen cried, stumbling backward, clutching his face. “Brother!” Ren roared, drawing his short blade. Jorin sidestepped the wild lunge, swept a leg under Ren’s, sending him sprawling. As Ren hit the floor, Jorin brought his elbow down hard on the boy’s stomach. “Kuak!” Ren gasped, winded. “Y-young master Jorin?” Master Elara stammered, his eyes wide with shock. Jorin, the mute, clumsy Blackwood heir, had just effortlessly dispatched two brawling apprentices. His fighting style was crude, brutal, efficient—nothing like the formalized stances taught in the Empire. It was the street-brawl, survivalist technique of a captive. “Y-you bastard… when did you learn to fight?” Kaelen spluttered, nose bleeding freely. “Silence,” Jorin commanded, his voice cold. “If you want to breathe tomorrow, run. Now.” He climbed the stairs two at a time, his heart thundering. Master Elara called from below, “Left side, young master!” Jorin located the small, neglected room. A plain wooden bed, a worn chest, and there, on the grimy bedside table, lay his bag of belongings. Beside it, glinting dully in the dim light, was a simple steel dagger, a thin, blue-dyed leather cord wrapped around its hilt. His mother’s keepsake. He hadn’t seen it in so long. A pang of longing, a sharp, melancholic echo of a past already gone once, hit him. He reached for it. His fingers closed around the hilt. A sound. Not a voice in the air, but a piercing, psychic shriek that ripped through his mind. A cacophony of sorrow, a raw blast of grief and despair. It was his mother’s final, silent scream, amplified by the metal’s memory, tearing at the edges of his sanity. The dagger vibrated, a faint, barely perceptible hum that only Jorin could truly feel, yet it echoed with the force of a collapsing world. “Kyaaaak!” The sound wasn't in his ears, but in the marrow of his bones. He recoiled, dropping the dagger as if burned. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. He stared at the dagger, a monstrous thing now. Hesitantly, he bent, retrieving it. Again, the raw, tearing shriek. It was unbearable. The mental assault sent a wave of nausea through him. “Ah!” He dropped it again, his hands trembling. Gooseflesh prickled his skin. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The blade was innocent, yet its resonance was a torment. He needed it. It was his last tangible link to his past, his mother. His gaze fell on the bedsheets. Rough, but thick. An idea. He ripped a strip from the bottom sheet, then another, wrapping the dagger tightly, layer after layer, around the hilt and blade. The mental scream, agonizing moments before, subsided. A dull thrum, still present, but muffled, manageable. He clutched it, the wrapped metal cold against his palm. Downstairs, the twins were still there, bickering, rubbing their bruised faces. Master Elara looked on, bewildered. “I told you to run!” Jorin bellowed, desperation raw in his voice. “My nose is still bleeding!” Kaelen wailed. “And why should we run? What’s happening!?” Jorin shook his head. They wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. He had no more time to convince them. “Enough,” Jorin said, turning to Master Elara. “Whatever you choose, it’s on your heads. Master Elara, we must go. Now.” Before Master Elara could reply, a scream tore through the night. Not human. A mechanical shriek, a metallic groan of ancient gears grinding to a halt, followed by a choked, pained cry from outside the inn. A sickening crash. Jorin’s blood ran cold. The fleeting joy of his return shattered. His heart plunged into an abyss of dread. Had he returned only to face the same fate? “W-what was that?” Kaelen whispered, his face pale, his earlier bravado evaporated. Jorin swallowed, the taste of ash in his mouth. “The Cinder Wraiths.” “Uh!” The twins’ faces drained of all color. The name was a blight, a whispered terror throughout the Sunder-Forged Empire. No one misunderstood its meaning. They knew. “Damn it…” Ren whimpered, his eyes wide with fear. The timing. Of all the nights, why this one? The cycle of the Ironmaw. The day, ten years ago, when he was taken. The day the Cinder Wraiths stole him away, branding him, twisting him into something less than human. The echo had returned. But this time, he would fight.

Chapter 3: The Echo's Return