A circle of runes carved into the floor around the dais lit up, casting beams of soft light into the air. The runes weren't words—they were memories themselves, waiting to be fed.
Argolaith felt the ancient call more clearly now.
Yuneith could not survive on magic or blood alone.
It needed his journey.
His struggles.
His truths.
Each memory would weave into the roots, healing the fractures, binding Yuneith's spirit back together.
A voice, older than the temple, brushed against him like a distant breeze:
"Offer the moments that shaped you.
Offer the moments that scarred you.
Offer the moments that define you."
And so he did.
He reached inward.
The first memory he gave was simple, but pure—the moment he left Seminah.
The cabin door creaking closed behind him. The weight of the storage ring gifted by Athos heavy on his belt. The endless horizon stretching before him.
The mix of fear and excitement.
He had nothing but a dream.
Nothing but hope.
