Breglio and the Labyrinth of Whispered Names

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The evening smelled of damp earth as Breglio reached the edge of the grove. Before him rose a wall of hedges, tall as a tower and tightly woven like old fabric. The leaves appeared black in the dim light, but as soon as the imp raised his lantern, they glittered green as in dreams. A faint sound rippled through the air—barely audible, a whisper that sounded like wind at first, but then formed syllables. Names. "Sorelia... Harwin... Toval..." The hedge breathed them forth, as if calling back lost friends. Breglio narrowed his eyes, the bridge of his nose glinting in the lantern light. He knew: This was the Labyrinth of Whispered Names, a place where words ripped from people's minds echoed—names forgotten, stolen, or never truly spoken. He stepped inside, and the fog within swallowed the world. Every passage looked the same: green walls, narrow paths, winding curves. But with every step, the whispering changed. It grew, swelled, called louder. Some voices sounded yearning, others sharp and hateful. Breglio held the lantern close to his chest, as if it could show him the right path. Soon he encountered the first shadows. They had no form, only outlines of mist, and they hovered close to the hedges. Their mouths moved, but no sound emerged—until he approached. Then they formed words: names they themselves had forgotten. Some stared at him, as if trying to recapture their lost sound. Breglio stopped. "I can't save you all," he murmured softly. "But perhaps I'll find the core of this maze." On and on he went. The whispering swelled to a chorus. Voices overlapped until it seemed as if the air trembled. He felt his ears flutter and the ground vibrate beneath his bare feet. Finally, a space opened up: a circular courtyard, with an old well in the center. The hedges climbed high around it, as if protecting something deep within. Breglio approached. From the well rose not water, but mist. Names glowed within it like fireflies, luminous syllables floating like little stars. And then he saw it—a solitary figure, half-hidden in the mist. It seemed as if woven from vines, a guardian of the labyrinth. Its voice echoed from a thousand throats at once: "What name are you seeking, Breglio?" He lowered the lantern. "Not a specific one. I seek balance. Too many voices are trapped here." The vine-like creature fell silent, then pointed to the mist lights. "Names are power. If you bring them back, memories awaken, debts return, wounds reopen. Whom do you wish to redeem? Whom do you silence?"