Merlin's pulse was steady now. Too steady. As if something in him had been waiting for this moment. That same strange aura from before—gold and alternating streaks of blue lightning—still shimmered faintly across his arm.
The mist-figure tilted its head at him.
"…Everhart…"
The voice was an echo of an echo, a whisper cracked down the middle.
Merlin spoke before anyone else could. "Why are you here?"
The fog-body stretched, shifting like it was amused—or angered; it was impossible to tell.
"…the aberration must be corrected…"
"Elara. Nathan. Stay close," Merlin said.
The figure's voice sharpened, too many notes layered into one sound.
"…you cannot remain in this world…"
A jolt ran through Merlin's spine.
He moved.
