The road woke before they did.
At dawn, mist clung to the stones like breath held too long, and the ancient path stretched itself beneath the pale sky. It had carried kings and beggars, prayers and curses, blood and hope. It remembered every footstep. And now, it remembered Elian.
He stirred when the first bell of the valley rang—low, distant, more felt than heard. His dreams scattered like birds startled from a field. For a moment, he did not know where he was, only that the ground beneath him felt warm, as if the earth itself had been awake all night.
"Elian," Mara whispered.
He opened his eyes. She was already sitting, dark hair tied back, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. The mist parted there, revealing a narrow stretch of stone that curved sharply to the east. Where it bent, the air shimmered faintly, like heat above fire.
"You see it too," Elian said.
Mara nodded. "That wasn't there yesterday."
Behind them, Old Teren groaned as he pushed himself upright. The keeper of maps rubbed his knees and squinted toward the bend. "Then we've chosen poorly," he muttered. "Or very well."
Elian stood, his pack heavy with the few things he owned—bread gone stale, a dull knife, the journal that had belonged to his father. The journal pressed against his back like a second spine. He could almost feel the weight of words inside it shifting, impatient.
They had been walking for seven days since leaving Kareth, following the First Road—the one said to branch into a thousand paths, each leading to a different ending. Most travelers believed it was a metaphor. Elian no longer did.
"Which road is this?" Mara asked.
Teren unfolded a map so old its edges had turned to dust. Symbols crowded the parchment, layered over one another as if generations had argued on the same page. He traced the bend with a trembling finger.
"This," he said slowly, "is the Road of Echoes. It only appears to those who've already lost something."
Elian's chest tightened. He thought of his father's voice fading in the sickroom. Of the last word left unsaid.
"What happens if we follow it?" Elian asked.
Teren did not answer at once. When he did, his voice was softer. "The road speaks back."
They packed in silence. The mist thinned as the sun rose, but the shimmer ahead only grew brighter. With each step toward the bend, Elian felt a pressure behind his eyes, like memories pushing to be remembered.
The moment his foot touched the new stretch of stone, the world changed.
Sound deepened. The crunch of gravel echoed twice, then three times, as if the road repeated it, trying to understand. The air smelled suddenly of rain and ash. Mara gasped.
"Elian," she said, gripping his arm. "I hear—"
"—voices," he finished.
They were not voices as one heard people speak. They were impressions, fragments—laughter without mouths, grief without tears. The road pulsed beneath their feet, faintly alive.
A figure stood ahead.
Elian's breath caught. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a familiar cloak mended at the elbow. He stood with his back turned, staring down the road as if waiting for someone to catch up.
"No," Elian whispered.
The figure turned.
His father's face looked exactly as it had the last day—lined, tired, but warm with a half-smile that had never quite left.
Mara stepped back, shaking her head. "This isn't real."
"It's real enough," Teren said, though his eyes were wet. "The road remembers what you bring into it."
Elian took a step forward. His heart pounded so hard he feared it would break the illusion. "Father?"
The man's eyes met his—clear, sorrowful. "You walk too fast, my son," he said, voice echoing oddly, as if spoken down a long hall. "You always have."
Elian's throat burned. A thousand questions pressed against his lips, but only one escaped. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The figure sighed. "Because some truths become roads of their own. Once you step on them, you can't turn back."
The stones beneath them cracked softly. The road darkened.
Teren grabbed Elian's shoulder. "Listen, boy. Don't linger. The Road of Echoes feeds on regret."
"But this is my chance," Elian said. "I can hear him. I can—"
"You can lose yourself," Mara snapped, fear sharpening her voice. "Look."
Elian glanced down. Where his boots touched the road, the stone had begun to mirror his reflection—but older, worn thin, eyes hollow. A future version of himself stared back, mouth open in a silent scream.
His father's figure stepped closer. "Every road to eternity asks for a price," he said gently. "This one asks you to stay."
Elian's hands shook. He wanted to fall to his knees, to beg forgiveness for things never done, words never spoken. The road hummed, encouraging, warm.
Then he felt Mara's hand in his.
"You're not done yet," she said quietly. "Not here. Not like this."
For a long moment, the world balanced on a breath.
Elian reached into his pack and pulled out the journal. He opened it to the last page—blank, waiting. With a trembling hand, he tore the page free and let it fall onto the stones.
"I carry you," he said to the figure. "But I won't live inside you."
The road screamed.
Not in anger, but in loss. The shimmer collapsed inward, the stones dulling, the echoes fading. His father's image smiled once more, then unraveled into mist.
When the road stilled, they stood on ordinary stone again—cold, silent, empty.
Mara exhaled shakily. Teren wiped his face. "Few ever leave that road," he said. "Fewer still unchanged."
Elian picked up the journal. The blank page was gone. In its place, new words had appeared, written in a hand that looked like his own.
Not all roads lead forward. Some teach you how to let go.
Elian closed the book.
Ahead, the First Road split again—three paths this time, each vanishing into a different horizon.
He took a breath and stepped forward, knowing now that eternity was not a destination.
It was a choice, made one road at a time.