The fire burned low in the center of the waiting grounds, painting the faces of the Gatefront Wanderers in restless amber. I sat among them now, an outsider in a circle of survivors who had long ago stopped believing in rescue. The wind carried the smell of ash and metal, and beyond the tents, the colossal gates loomed like monuments to forgotten gods.
That was when I saw it.
On the wrist of a young man seated across from me—half-hidden beneath leather straps and travel dust—was a mark. Faint, almost erased by time, but unmistakable.
It was the same shape my son bore on his arm the night he vanished.
The sight hit me like a falling gate. My thoughts fractured: Had he been here? Had he crossed into this realm, alone and terrified, while I searched through broken dreams and dying worlds?
The young man noticed my stare. Slowly, he pushed back his sleeve, revealing the full sigil: a spiral of interlocking lines, glowing faintly as though alive.
“This,” he said, voice low but steady, “is called the Mark of Echoes. It binds those who have touched the collapsing realms. Maybe your son carried the same fate.”
I wanted to speak, to demand answers, but the Wanderers fell silent, watching the gates as though expecting them to flare open at any moment. The mark pulsed again, faintly—like a heartbeat waiting for its missing half.
Somewhere beyond these portals, a war of realities was stirring. And my son was tangled in its threads.
