He saw a group of orphans clinging to his cloak, their eyes wide with admiration as he crouched down, offering them small trinkets he had collected from his travels. A healer scolded him for neglecting his own wounds, pressing cool bandages against his burned skin as he merely laughed it off.
He saw moments of battle, of peace, of warmth, of sorrow.
Then the memory shifted again.
A throne room, grand and imposing, stretched before him. He stood at its center, his sword planted into the ground, his gaze fixed on the woman before him—an empress draped in regal gold, her expression unreadable. Around them, nobles whispered, some in awe, others in resentment.
"You have done enough," she said, her voice soft yet firm. "Rest, Ezren."
But he didn't.
He saw himself turning away, gripping his sword tighter. There was still more to do, more people to protect.
The scene shattered like glass.
Now, he was in darkness.
No castle, no villagers, no warmth. Only silence.
