Lionel stood opposite Amari, the torchlight behind him curling upward like it was trying to escape the tension in the air. His dagger hung limp at his side, and blood still streaked faintly along his cheek where Amari had cut through mirage to land something real. Yet his smile held firm—steady, unreadable, shaped more by reminiscence than malice.
"You remind me of me," Lionel said.
His voice wasn't mocking now.
It was remembering.
And before Amari could speak, the night folded inward—into memory, into distance, into something older.
Twenty-two years ago.
Orivath.
A district carved into the belly of forgotten ore country. No rivers. No harvest. Just stone cracked open and sold to anyone with boots polished enough to walk through the front gate untouched. Orivath was survival stitched from rust—a place where hope fermented too long and became bitterness.
Lionel was twelve.
