In the heart of dusk, a whispering orb lay undisturbed, nestled in the crags of forgotten lore. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, half-myth, half-memory, of its power—an echo captured in an embrace of mystery.
But power was a fickle friend, and the orb awakened on an ordinary evening, its pulse syncing with the moon's silent ascent. Then came the echoes: fragmented tales of a seafaring witch, of moonlit battles, of a king with a heart of stone.
Some say they saw shadows flicker in the light of the orb, shadows that danced and weaved like old flames rekindled. Others heard laughter, tinkling like glass shattering, hinting at paths yet traveled.
And then, the decision—not of choice but of fate—was thrust upon those brave enough to approach. Should they reach out? Would they know the stories whispered in the dark? Only the brave or the foolish would dare.