The walk back to Wayford felt different this time.
Usually, my return from the jungle was marked by the heavy silence of exhaustion and the metallic tang of monster blood clinging to my skin.
But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, the air itself seemed to change.
The scent of damp earth was replaced by the drifting aroma of woodsmoke, sweet incense, and something savory—roast meats and spices I had not smelled in months.
I adjusted the strap of Tempest at my hip. The matte black scabbard felt right against my leg, a silent reminder of the days of hell I had just survived.
Elder Martha had explained the Festival of Echoes to me a few days ago.
To me, a kid from Earth, the idea of a "Memorial Festival" seemed like a contradiction. Back home, people wore black clothes and spoke in low voices and visited graves. They did not hang lanterns and roast meat and play music.
"Why the banquet, Martha?" I had asked her. "If it's for the dead, shouldn't it be... quiet?"
