I AM NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER, PLEASE STOP GIVING ME QUESTS

He had a face like weathered oak, eyes sharp as new steel, and a staff topped with a crystal that pulsed in time with my relics. "Cecil Dreggs," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Bearer of the Circle. I've been waiting."

The crew tensed up in an instant—Lilith's hand on her scythe, Vorren rising slow and steady, Jex palming a pilfered spoon like it was a shank. Yvra's eyes narrowed, Fog's tea paused mid-sip, and the knights fumbled for their weapons with matching clanks. I just stayed put, heart picking up speed. "Waiting? That's never good news. You with the order? Or just here to monologue?"

He smiled, faint and knowing. "Call me Thorne. Last of Valthorne's direct line. And no, not here to monologue. Here to warn you." He glanced at the scepter in my hand, something like relief flickering across his face. "The binding holds—for now. But the False King's tapped into something older. The Echoes. Shards of the old world's chaos, scattered when Valthorne first sealed the Devourer. They're waking up, and they'll latch onto anyone with power like yours."

Thorne pulled back his hood a bit, revealing a scar that ran from temple to jaw, jagged like lightning. "One's already stirring nearby. In the Whispering Woods. If you don't claim it first, the King will. And trust me—that won't end with pie fights."

Lilith let out a low whistle. "Echoes, huh? Sounds like more junk to juggle. You coming along, mystery man, or just dropping breadcrumbs?"

Thorne chuckled, dry as autumn leaves. "I'm coming. Someone's got to keep you lot from turning it into a circus." He nodded toward the tree line, where the woods loomed dark and inviting. "Shall we? Before the shard decides to throw its own party."

I pushed off the tree, relics humming in agreement. "Why not? Beats sitting around waiting for the next kingly tantrum." The crew fell in behind, a familiar rhythm of footsteps and muttered quips. Jex was already eyeing Thorne like he might have shiny secrets to spill. Vorren sized him up with a grunt of approval. Yvra murmured something about "lineage verification" under her breath. Fog just smiled, like he'd seen this coming chapters ago.

The woods swallowed us quick, branches knitting overhead into a green-tinted gloom. Twigs snapped underfoot, birds called out warnings we probably should've heeded, and the air grew thick with that earthy scent of things long buried. Thorne led the way, staff tapping a steady beat that seemed to part the underbrush just enough. "The shard's a tricky one," he said over his shoulder. "Calls itself the Whisperer. Feeds on doubts, turns 'em into illusions that bite back. Valthorne locked it away because even he couldn't trust his own head around it."

"Sounds delightful," I muttered, quill warming in my pocket like it was gearing up for a fight. Doubts? Yeah, I had a few. Like whether this whole Loafbearer gig was just the universe's longest prank.

We pushed deeper, the path narrowing until thorns tugged at our clothes like needy exes. That's when the whispers started. Soft at first, like wind through leaves. Then sharper. My name, slithering out from the shadows. "Cecil... failure... why bother..." Lilith shot me a look, her own grip tightening. "You hearing that too?" Vorren growled low, knife out. Even Thorne's step faltered, his scar twitching.

The illusions hit like a bad trip. One second, solid ground. The next, the forest floor dropped away into a pit of writhing vines that looked way too much like tentacles. Jex yelped and swung his tambourine, clipping a branch that cracked loud enough to echo. Thrain charged forward with a bellow, lance swinging wild, only to trip over nothing and face-plant into a bush. "Cursed cobwebs!" Gorrim hauled him up, both of them swatting at phantom spiders that weren't there.

I gripped the scepter, letting its warmth cut through the fog in my head. The whispers clawed harder—"You're no hero, just lucky..."—but the relics pushed back, a steady hum that drowned them out. "Not today," I said, more to myself than the woods. The quill flared, sketching light into the air that burned the illusions away like morning mist.

We stumbled into a clearing, the shard waiting at the center—a jagged crystal pulsing with inner light, hovering over a pedestal of twisted roots. Thorne raised his staff. "There. Grab it quick—the whispers get worse up close."

But of course, nothing's ever that easy. The ground rumbled, and shadows coalesced into figures. Not the King's men. Worse. Echoes of us. Twisted versions, smirking with our faces. My double stepped forward, relics mocking on his belt. "Why fight? You're tired, Cecil. Let me take the weight."

The crew's echoes joined in—Lilith's laughing cruelly, Vorren's sneering at our weakness. It hit hard, stirring up every old insecurity. But I saw the flicker in their eyes, the real ones. This was the test.

"Enough," I snapped, scepter raised. The circle ignited, relics linking in a blaze that lit the clearing like noon. The echoes shrieched, unraveling into smoke. I lunged for the shard, fingers closing around its cool surface. It slotted into place with a click, the whispers dying to silence.

Thorne exhaled, leaning on his staff. "Well done. That's one down." The shard dimmed, integrating with the scepter like it belonged there. Power thrummed through me, clearer now, like the doubts had been baked out.

Lilith clapped my shoulder, grinning. "Told you—impressive." The others nodded, the tension breaking into relieved laughs. Even the knights managed a salute without tripping.

As the sun dipped lower, Thorne pointed east. "Three more shards. The next one's in the Flooded Fens. Muddy work, but it'll test your grit."

I pocketed the quill, feeling the weight of it all. "Grit's one thing we've got in spades. Lead on, family. Adventure waits for no one—especially not us."

We moved out, the woods parting behind us, the shard's hum a new note in the symphony. Doubts lingered, sure. But with this crew? They felt smaller. Manageable. Even fun.