He collapsed. Chest burning. Breath shallow. A mark pulsed beneath his skin—something ancient, something waking.
Figures emerged from the mist. Not dead. Not fully alive either. Like fragments of choices left behind by others.
One of them—a youth with a blindfold—stepped forward. He whispered, not into Sher's ear, but directly into his mind.
"You heard a voice. But whose words were they?
Darkness can wear light to pull you closer.
Not every alliance is yours.
Not every loss belongs to you."
Sher tried to ask him to explain—but the figure vanished.
Only a final phrase remained, echoing in his mind like the aftertaste of a dream:
"When you're ninety percent closer to the truth… destruction will begin.
The only question is—whose."