Chapter 2 The forest of echoes

The sound lingered long after Aria had silent, echoing in the chamber like a forgotten lullaby remembered by the bones of the earth. Her mother knelt in awe, tears streaming down her face-not of fear, but recognition. Somewhere deep inside, the song had stirred something old, something she too had once known in dreams she couldn't remember.

Aria stood perfectly still, her small frame outlined in a gentle light that poured from the walls and roots themselves. Then, slowly, tendrils of silver mist curled from the edges of the basin. They reached for her, weaving around her hands, her hair, her voice.

And the wind whispered: You have spoken. Now hear.

The mist lifted her gently from the ground, cradling her in a swirl of air and memory. Her eyes fluttered closed, and a symbol-a spiral of wind encircling a single leaf-etched itself onto her palm, glowing softly before fading into her skin.

When her feet touched the earth again, something had changed.

Aria turned to her mother and opened her mouth.

A breeze stirred the chamber, and though the girl's lips never moved, her mother heard her voice inside her mind.

"Don't be afraid, Mama. I remember now. I remember the wind."

Her mother gasped, unable to speak.

Aria had found her first gift: the Voice of the Wind - the ability to speak not with words, but with thoughts carried by the air itself. The power was ancient, once used by the Windcallers - guardians who could soothe storms, stir seeds into bloom, and whisper across mountains.

The chamber began to dim. The glowing threads receded. A path opened to the side, one they hadn't seen before - narrower, woven with vines of silver and deep-rooted green. At its entrance stood a figure.

Tall. Cloaked in bark and breeze. Eyes glowing like Aria's.

"You have awakened the first breath," the figure said, voice rustling like leaves. "But the forest is fractured, and the silence is spreading. More must be remembered. Come, Child of the Wind. The old world waits for you."

Aria turned, her small hand slipping into her mother's. Her eyes, fierce and bright, never left the figure's face.

And the wind, for the first time in an age, sang.

The path twisted like memory - winding deeper, the air thick with the scent of moss and rain. Trees older than language loomed above, their trunks carved with runes that pulsed faintly as Aria passed. The figure who guided them said little, but the wind spoke in her place, rustling through leaves in patterns only Aria could understand.

Each gust carried a fragment: a name, a place, a feeling.

The Forest of Echoes.

Here, voices of the past lingered, trapped in root and stone. The Windcallers had once trained here, learning not only to speak with the wind but to listen to the truths buried in silence. But the forest had fallen quiet - choked by shadow, forgotten by those who once protected it.

They reached a clearing.

At its center stood a circle of stones, worn smooth by time. Between them, faint trails of light flickered like fireflies. Aria stepped forward, and the wind stilled.

"Here," the guide said, voice soft but strong, "you will remember what was lost."

Aria sat cross-legged in the circle. The guide knelt beside her, placing a single feather in her palm - not from a bird, but from something greater, something that no longer flew. As soon as she touched it, her mind opened.

Memories rushed in - not hers, but those of the forest:

- A boy with storm-gray eyes whispering to a hurricane. - A girl who sang seedlings from stone. - A war of silence that stole their voices, their names, their wind.

Aria gasped, but did not cry. Her tiny hands clenched the feather, and a breeze spun around her, sharper now - purposeful.

She remembered.

The silence wasn't natural. It had been made. Crafted.

Something had stolen the voices of the forest and hidden them in the Hollow Wind, a place where echoes went to die.

The guide nodded solemnly. "You are the last hope, Aria. If the Hollow Wind spreads, nothing will sing again - not the trees, not the birds, not even the stars."

Aria stood, steady now. Stronger.

Her eyes glowed.

"I'll find the Hollow," she said, not with her mouth, but with the wind.

Her mother, standing at the edge of the clearing, felt it in her bones - the beginning of something vast.

And somewhere, deep in the silence, the darkness stirred. Watching.

Waiting.

That night, the wind howled.

Not with anger - but warning.

Aria slept beneath a canopy of ancient branches, curled beside her mother, her fingers still wrapped around the feather. In dreams, she stood at the edge of a canyon where sound fell and never returned. The Hollow Wind was near. It called without a voice, a presence so vast it pressed against her chest like silence made solid.

She awoke at dawn.

The forest was hushed, as though holding its breath. Even the birds had gone still.

And then - a branch cracked.

Her mother stirred, rising quickly. The guide turned, staff in hand, but did not move.

From the trees emerged a boy, no older than twelve. His cloak was woven from shadow and sunlight, and his feet made no sound as he stepped into the clearing. His eyes were strange - not empty, but split, as though they looked at two worlds at once.

The guide bowed her head. "You walk between," she said.

He nodded, gaze fixed on Aria.

"I've been following the wind," he said. "It told me to find her."

Aria stood, unafraid.

The wind wrapped around them both, and something passed between them - recognition.

The boy knelt and opened his hand.

In his palm was a stone - black as night, cold as silence. It pulsed with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat, but slower, deeper.

"This comes from the Hollow Wind," he said. "It fell from the sky the night it woke. My village... it stopped speaking after that. No one remembers their names."

Aria looked at the stone, then back at him.

"We can fix it," she whispered into his thoughts.

He nodded.

"I'm called Kael," he said. "Or I was. The Hollow tries to take even that. But if we go together, maybe..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Aria reached out and touched the stone. The wind flared.

The path was opening.

To the west, where mountains split the sky and the air turned still - the Hollow Wind waited.

And now, it knew they were coming.