Arya did not sleep that night, though his body ached and his eyes burned from fatigue. The blood dried on his hands, a faint reminder of the seal he had partially broken in his room. Even in this peaceful world, danger lingered—not outside, but within the very structure of his reality. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the window where moonlight filtered through the curtains. The town below was silent, blanketed in a serene calm that mocked him with its perfection.
It was too quiet. Too ordinary.
He clenched his fists. The warmth of home, the laughter of Aisha, the soft hum of his mother moving about—it all felt wrong. His memories of the dungeon and the Black Dragon were still vivid. Jun's dying scream,
Kai's body torn apart, Mia's final moment burned into his soul. Those faces refused to leave him, yet here, they did not exist.
Only fragments of what might have been, memories that the world's construction refused to accept.
He stood and walked to the mirror.
