Thorne stood tall at first.
Of course he did. That was who he was.
The blazing light from the fractured realm spun into a wide, darkened arena—no sky above, no floor below. Just void… and them.
A ring of faceless warriors slowly emerged from the shadows. Their bodies were forged from whispers and shade, but their presence was suffocating. They pointed at him, silent at first.
Then the shifting began.
The faceless figures morphed—their bodies bending, forming noses, lips, eyes filled with familiarity.
His father's voice cut the silence like a blade.
"Discipline is strength. Freedom without boundaries is failure."
Then came his mother, face tight with disappointment.
"You chase glory without direction. That's not how real life works."
One after another.
His teachers, his coaches, old friends, even a stranger on the internet—they spoke like echoes from walls he'd thought long since torn down.
"You talk like you're above everyone. You think you're different?"
"The world doesn't bend for people like you."
"Ego will be your downfall."
"You'll regret not following the rules like the rest of us."
"Grow up, Thorne."
Their words spun around him in a cyclone of judgment, tearing into the walls he had always kept high and gleaming.
And for the first time in a long while…
He didn't grin.
He didn't smirk.
He stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight—not from arrogance but from something much heavier.
Was it guilt? No.
Was it doubt? Maybe.
But more than anything—it was a weight he never wanted to admit existed.
The weight of everyone else's version of him.
The weight of being watched and constantly proving that he deserved to shine as brightly as he burned.
And still, they circled.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Every voice, every judgment, folding into a singular, suffocating chant:
"You're too much."
"You're too free."
"You'll never be enough if you keep being you."
Thorne exhaled slowly—one long, tired breath that carried the weight of every pointed finger, every nagging voice from his past.
Then he chuckled. A low, raw sound.
And with a grin stretched wide across his face, he raised both hands in mock surrender and shouted into the faceless storm—
"Man… FUCK YOU ALL!"
The voices stuttered. The illusions flickered.
He stepped forward, barefoot on nothing, chin lifted, golden eyes glinting like a wildfire just starting to roar.
"I get it," he said, spreading his arms. "You want me in a box. You want me small. Obedient. Safe. You want me less. But guess what?"
He spun once, laughing at the absurdity of it all. "I wasn't made to follow every damn rule. I wasn't born to shrink just to make your world neater."
The mirrored figures began to melt—dripping like wax in the presence of heat.
But he wasn't done.
"I don't want the kind of life where you wake up and already know how the day's gonna end."
"I want the kind of freedom that burns."
His hand stretched toward the nothing above—
"Freedom to screw up. To soar. To scream. To live without needing anyone's permission."
One of the melting illusions—his father's—whispered, now barely audible:
"That freedom will get you hurt…"
Thorne just smiled wider, a fire crackling in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "But at least it'll be my pain. Not someone else's plan for me."
The arena began to shake, reality fracturing like glass under strain.
"I'm done asking if I'm too much."
"Let the world adjust."
And with those final words, he slammed his spear into the void beneath his feet—
The faceless shattered like porcelain, exploding into light.
All that remained was Thorne.
Breathing hard.
Standing proud.
And free.
The scene shifted with a hush, as if the air itself dared not breathe too loudly.
Lys stood in the silence of a memory made dream—a library set ablaze, though no flames could be seen. Only smoke. Thick and curling. Books reduced to ash mid-sentence, pages wilting like petals caught in a storm of heat. The air smelled of old ink and endings.
Her reflection stood beside her—not as a copy, but as a companion. Identical, yet somehow… smaller. Paler. Still.
Together, they watched the embers eat away at the quiet structure. A storyhouse. A place of refuge. A home to knowledge. And perhaps, to a single person who once meant everything.
No name was said. None had to be.
Because the shape of the smoke—that slow, spiraling climb to the unseen ceiling—spoke it.
Maya.
Lys didn't cry. Not this time.
She let the silence sit beside her like an old coat—weathered, worn, and familiar. Her hands curled tightly over the leather binding of a book that wasn't burning. One she refused to let go of.
"It's not guilt," she whispered, not even sure if it was meant for the reflection or herself.
"It's a question."
The reflection turned toward her, the same green eyes filled with the weight of what wasn't said.
"Why?" she continued. "Why didn't I see it? Why didn't she tell me? Why did the brightest laugh in the room go out without a sound?"
The smoke rose like unanswered letters.
But Lys took a step forward.
Not toward the fire.
Not away from it.
Just forward.
"I'm not afraid to ask anymore."
"Even if the answers hurt."
Because courage wasn't loud. It didn't always look like swords or magic or battle cries.
Sometimes, it looked like walking into the ruin of something you loved, eyes open, heart broken—but still choosing to face the ghosts there.
Lys's reflection reached out, touching her shoulder gently before fading into sparks—gentle, glowing, and soft like fireflies at dusk.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
And in that burning, breathless space, she made a promise again.
"I'll find out, Maya. I'll keep walking forward. With or without answers. But I'll walk for both of us."
And behind her, the smoke began to clear.
The silent library crumbled like a mirror struck by truth—each beam, each book, each floating mote of ash fracturing into slivers of memory. The air shimmered, and with a final, delicate chime, the world shattered.
It was not destruction.
It was release.
Lys stood amidst the vanishing pieces, letting the sparkling fragments of grief and resolve fall around her like snow. Her fingers, still curled over the phantom book, loosened. And she smiled—tired, bittersweet, but sure.
She had walked through the smoke and come out breathing.
Like the lift of a curtain, the world changed.
Renna stood in velvet dark, the hush of a theater swallowing sound and thought. One spotlight burned dim on stage—dust swirling lazily in its cone of warmth.
Her reflection stood beneath it, graceful and sure, moving with practiced elegance.
But it wasn't the Renna of this world.
It was him.
The boy she used to be. Slender, powerful legs in sleek black tights, posture tall and proud, arms flowing like water to music only the two of them could hear. The steps were sharp, precise—joyous. There was no audience, but the performance was full, honest, unashamed.
Renna didn't move. Just watched.
That boy danced.
He loved someone—quietly. Fiercely. Secretly. Another boy who'd never see it, not like that. The fear of rejection, of being wrong, of not fitting in… it had carved silence into every step. His heart had been loud, but his mouth had stayed shut.
Because what if love made things worse?
Renna wrapped her arms around herself.
She had never stopped dancing.
Just… changed stages. Changed roles. Changed names.
But the longing—that hadn't changed. Not even with this new body. Maybe especially not with it. Now there were new layers of silence. Of not knowing what to say. Of wondering if saying anything at all would make the distance grow wider.
Her old self on stage spun, then leapt, frozen mid-air in a moment of impossible grace.
Renna took a breath, but it caught on a sob she didn't let out.
She looked at him—at herself.
She whispered, "I still don't know if I'll ever say it."
The boy landed the leap and bowed.
Renna blinked.
And then the reflection bowed to her.
Not as a goodbye.
But as a passing of the spotlight.
The theater dimmed, then flared—soft golden light blooming across the velvet curtains, the rows of empty seats, the stage where time folded over itself like silk.
Renna stepped forward. And her past self did too.
Two dancers now. One in tights and trembling grace. One in a long coat with boots scuffed from adventure and knives hidden in her belt. They mirrored each other at first, circling. Hesitant. Searching.
Then, with a swell of unseen music, they moved.
A duet.
Their bodies spoke where words once failed. Each turn, each extension of hand and foot, was a question. A memory. A truth.
And then—
"What is love?" asked the boy, his voice carried in the movement of his limbs, his gaze steady even as he danced backwards into light.
Renna followed, feet gliding, her breath shaky but clear.
"Something I hid in a box for too long."
"Why?"
A turn. A slow lift of his arms. A reflection of those countless rehearsals.
"It's the only thing we ever felt so deeply, wasn't it?"
Renna caught his hand—her own—and spun him gently.
"Because I didn't know if it was allowed. If I was allowed."
The boy gave a sad smile.
"And now?"
She twirled away, then back again, a blade of grace cutting through doubt.
"Now it's louder than ever. But I still can't say it."
Her voice cracked, as the dance faltered.
"I'm afraid it's just me shouting into silence."
They came together again at center stage. No longer apart. One breath, shared.
The boy rested his forehead to hers, glowing faint like the ghost of a memory never confessed.
"Even if he never hears it… even if we never go back… you still have the love. It's yours. Not for permission. Not for reply. Yours."
Renna's hands trembled.
"But I want to be known. Not just remembered."
He nodded.
"Then dance. Until someone sees you."
And with that, the boy began to fade—into dust, into light, into her.
She stepped forward, the music playing only in her bones now.
And she danced—trying to not hide her feelings.
Then all of a sudden.
THUMP.
THUMP-THUMP.
"AAAAAAA—THUMP."
A pile of groaning bodies crashed onto an unfamiliar stone floor.
Alaric's face was smashed against Thorne's back. Thorne had one leg tangled in Lys's cloak, who had landed belly-first on Renna's stomach. Renna was wheezing under the combined pressure of everyone's poor life choices and gravity.
"…ow," Alaric muttered into Thorne's spine. "Why do you smell like electric bacon?"
"Get off me," Renna gasped, flailing a leg. "I'm not a mattress—I'm a knife princess! I stab things, not cushion them!"
"Who the hell elbowed me in the spleen!?" Thorne shouted, trying to roll off the group pile like an uncoordinated seal.
"That would be me," Lys said cheerily, her face still smooshed sideways, her voice unnervingly calm. "Sorry. Panic elbow."
They all groaned again in unison. A choir of regrets.
Eventually, they untangled themselves with all the grace of tipsy toddlers doing yoga.
"Alright…" Alaric said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders and very real dirt from his hair. "We were just on floor 21, right?"
Everyone nodded.
"…So why—" He turned and pointed to the massive stone plaque behind them. "—does that say Floor 30?"
They all stared.
Silence.
Renna blinked. "Did we...skip nine floors?"
Lys squinted at the ornate script. "That's a very decorative '30.' I don't think it's lying."
Thorne let out a baffled snort. "I knew that trial messed with our heads, but what did we—accidentally speedrun depression?"
They all laughed nervously.
Then paused.
Looked around.
Looked again.
"…Wait," Alaric said, "where's Cael?"
Everyone froze.
Renna did a dramatic 360 spin and shouted, "CAEL?!"
No response.
Lys frowned. "That can't be right. We were all in the reflection trial. Weren't we?"
Thorne looked around, arms crossed. "Unless Cael reflected so hard he folded time and skipped us ahead."
Alaric rubbed his temple. "Great. We're on floor 30 of some unhinged economic slime tower, missing our brooding, paranoid friend who talks like an unmedicated philosophy major."
They stared at each other.
And then back at the plaque.
"Welp," Renna said, clapping her hands together, "we either go back for him or start building a shrine."
"Let's… give it five minutes," Lys suggested helpfully. "Maybe he'll just appear. Like he usually does. With creepy timing and a dramatic monologue."
They all nodded. Because, honestly? That did sound like Cael.