The heartbeat followed Cael into his dreams.
It thumped beneath the sound of waves and between breaths, faint but insistent — like something tapping politely at the edge of sleep.
He dreamt of water that reflected thoughts instead of faces, of words tumbling through the dark, each one asking to be remembered.
When he woke, the air was cold enough to bite. The fog outside had thickened until the houses across the street were only rumors. Aunt Mara stood by the stove, grinding something into a bowl. The smell of burnt sage mixed with rain.
"You didn't sleep," she said without looking at him.
"Neither did you."
"I wasn't the one whispering to the wall."
Cael blinked. "What?"
Mara turned, and for the first time since the tent burned, he saw fear naked on her face.
"The fog remembers, Cael. It listens to names."
He touched his chest. "Then why is it calling mine?"
Mara crossed the room in three quick steps and gripped his wrist.
"You've touched something you shouldn't have. If it starts answering, you run. Do you understand?"
Her hand was shaking. The weight of that frightened him more than her words.
---
He didn't run.
By afternoon, curiosity had grown teeth again. The drumbeat had shifted — no longer random, but forming a pattern, an invitation written in sound. Every few seconds, it paused, as if waiting for him to respond.
He found himself wandering toward the well at the edge of the square.
The villagers avoided it now; the stones around it were damp with something that wasn't water.
The air here was different — quieter, but not empty. It pressed on his skin.
He peered down. Darkness swallowed his gaze. At first, he saw only the ordinary reflection of fog and sky. Then, slowly, faint colors stirred in the depths — threads of light moving as if carried by a current.
He leaned closer. The light rippled, and the ripples formed shapes.
Letters.
They spelled his name.
---
"Don't."
Sera's voice broke the trance. She stood behind him, her sketch roll tucked beneath one arm, eyes wide.
"I thought you didn't believe in warnings," Cael said.
"I believe in consequences." She held out her hand. "Whatever's calling you, it's not alive."
He smiled thinly. "Then it can't hurt me."
"It doesn't need to. It only needs you to listen."
But Cael was already listening.
The water murmured softly now, a thousand voices threading through one another — half-formed, incomplete, but familiar.
He heard Aunt Mara's voice saying his name in a tone she hadn't used since he was small. He heard Fen, his classmate, laughing from somewhere deep beneath.
He heard his own voice, whispering questions he hadn't spoken aloud.
Sera grabbed his shoulder. "Cael!"
He blinked. "You hear it too?"
She shook her head. "No. I see it."
Her pupils were dilated; her voice trembled. "The air around you— it's bending."
---
Cael looked down again.
The lights in the well began to swirl, forming a spiral that reached upward.
A pulse ran through the stones under his feet — thump-thump, thump-thump — and for a moment he couldn't tell if it came from the ground or from his own chest.
Then the surface of the water rose, slick and weightless, defying gravity.
It hovered just below the lip of the well, trembling like a mirror stretched too thin.
And in it, a reflection smiled.
Not his reflection — but the man from the tent, the hollow-eyed shape from the mirror.
Only now, the figure looked closer to him — younger, almost his age, skin pale, expression calm.
The reflection raised a hand. So did Cael.
Sera gasped. "It's copying you."
"No," Cael said softly. "It's learning."
---
The mirror-water rippled. Cael's mark flared beneath his shirt, burning white-hot.
For one breathless moment, the world folded. He felt the ground vanish and air crush around him, like he'd been pulled into a bell jar. He was standing in the reflection now — inside the well — surrounded by dark water that did not feel wet.
Shapes moved in the depth below: distorted faces, unspoken words, fractured light.
He saw them — the echoes of people who had died in the experiment.
Some were crying. Some were laughing soundlessly. One reached up toward him, mouth open in a silent question.
Then a voice — or something like a voice — whispered against his ear:
> "You saw me once. Now I see you."
Pain exploded in his chest. The mark pulsed violently, light tearing through fabric and skin.
He gasped, and the world split.
Hands — cold and many — grabbed at him from the dark water. He felt them press against his ribs, his spine, his thoughts.
He screamed, but the sound had no air to live in.
Suddenly, someone yanked him backward — hard.
The real world snapped into place. He fell onto the wet stones of the well's edge, coughing, gasping, the echo of the hands still burning under his skin.
Aunt Mara stood over him, face pale, eyes wet.
Her palms were raw, as if she'd burned herself pulling him back.
"You fool," she whispered. "You've touched an Eidolon."
---
The fog around the well stirred, slow and deliberate.
From within it came a faint echo of Cael's own voice, soft as breath:
> "You shouldn't have saved me."
---
End of Chapter 4
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