For centuries, the Zorcha hung above the Grand Concourse, casting a steady amber glow. Its keepers, the Wick Monks, fed it fragments of memory: a child’s first laugh, a soldier’s last breath, a baker’s secret recipe. In return, the Zorcha warmed the city and held back the Mute—a creeping gray fog that erased whatever it touched.
“You’re the echo,” she whispered. “The first memory.” zorcha
Vellis frowned. “The Zorcha doesn’t choose. It is .” For centuries, the Zorcha hung above the Grand
Vellis went pale.