d cracked so much that she could see glimpses of what lay inside-a swirling, shimmering mass that seemed to hum with an energy she couldn't compreh

one, its shell reduced to dust that shimmered faintly on the ground. In its place hovered a small, glowing orb, no larger than a child's fist, its surface rippling like liquid glass. The whispers seemed to come from it, a chorus of voices speaking in a language Clara didn't understand. "What... what is it?" Thom's voice trembled as he stepped closer, his slingshot forgotten in his hand. Harrow's eyes were wide, his voice barely a whisper. "It's an echo. A piece of the past, trapped in the egg all these years. The prophecy said the egg would hold the key... this must be it." Clara reached out, her fingers brushing the orb. It was warm, like the egg had been, but the moment she touched it, the whispers stopped-and a vision flooded her mind. She gasped, her vision blurring as images flashed before her: a village on fire, the river swallowing homes, shadowy figures rising from the water, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. And at the center of it all, a woman, her face streaked with ash, holding an egg just like the one Clara had found. The woman's voice echoed in Clara's head: *"The fractures will return. Only the chosen can mend them."* The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Clara gasping for air. She stumbled back, her hands trembling. "I saw... I saw the past," she stammered. "A woman-she looked like me. She was trying to stop this, a hundred years ago." Harrow nodded grimly. "That'd be Lila Hensley. Your great-great-grandmother. She was the last one chosen by the egg. Looks like the prophecy runs in your blood." Before Clara could process that, a piercing scream cut through the air. She turned toward the river, where the water had now breached the village's edge, flooding the lower streets. The shadowy figures were emerging-tall, humanoid shapes made of water and darkness, their forms shifting and rippling as they moved. Their glowing eyes locked onto Clara, and a low, guttural sound emanated from them, like a growl carried on the wind. "They're coming for the echo," Har