Lindarion didn't answer. His chest burned.
The scene shifted, faster now. His father in that world. A weary man, eyes sunken from overwork, patting his head with a faint smile. Promising he'd come to the next tournament. Promising things he couldn't always keep.
And then the hospital room. Beeping monitors. The man's chest rising slower, slower, until it stopped.
The boy had cried until his voice broke. Alone. Sixteen years old, gripping his foil like it was the only anchor left.
Then—
The truck. Headlights. Screeching brakes.
Impact. Darkness.
Ashwing whimpered in his head. 'Lindarion… stop. Please, stop looking.'
But he couldn't. The illusions didn't give him the mercy of closing his eyes. They forced him to watch, to feel. His past life unraveling in merciless fragments, his regrets sharper than any blade.
The chamber pulsed with light, as if the Tree itself whispered: This is what you were. This is what you left unfinished.
The system chimed again.
