For weeks, he traveled like a ghost through the land he had saved. He was a man desperately trying to fit the square peg of his old ideals into the round, broken hole of this new reality. His body healed with an unnerving, silent speed, the violet energy seeming to knit his bones and mend his flesh from within, leaving no trace but a lingering, cold sensation deep in his marrow. The process was painless, efficient, and deeply unsettling.
He stuck to the back roads and forest paths, a hood drawn low over his features. He saw the Order of Dawn's influence everywhere, a creeping vine of doctrine choking the land. Their sigil—a stylized sun rising over a straight line, representing the dawn of a new age—was carved over doorframes, hung in shops, and embroidered on the robes of the countless pilgrims who walked the well-trodden paths to the great cathedrals. Their sermons, which he overheard from a distance, were a litany of Saint Arlen's glorious victory, his divine light, his boundless mercy. They never spoke of a seal. Never of a sacrifice. It was a tale of a battle won, a darkness vanquished by the sheer, overwhelming power of one man's holy purpose.
He came upon a small, roadside shrine built into the hollow of an ancient, gnarled oak tree. It was a humble place, filled with simple offerings—wildflowers, painted stones, strips of cloth tied to the branches. Inside, a crude but heartfelt fresco depicted Arlen, handsome and serene, bathed in holy light, his foot resting on a formless, defeated shadow. There were no other heroes in the image. No circle of sealing. Only Arlen, alone in his glory.
Something broke inside Arden then. A small, final crack in the dam of his denial. He knelt before the icon of his brother. He bowed his head and prayed. He thanked Arlen for protecting the peace, for being the steadfast hero the world needed, for ensuring his, Arden's, sacrifice was not in vain. The words felt like ash in his mouth, a bitter, poisonous litany that choked him. He was praying to the man who had stolen his life, his legacy, his very name.
At night, the dreams were relentless. They were not mere memories; they were sensory assaults, vivid and brutal. The searing, soul-rending agony of the sealing ritual. The cold, calculating emptiness in Arlen's smile, now viewed with the terrible, hindsight clarity of thirty years of imprisonment. And Elara's voice, not a whisper, but a raw, gut-wrenching scream that was suddenly, perfectly clear: "ARDEN! DON'T! IT'S A TRAP!" He would wake up drenched in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs, his own aura flaring violently in the darkness, the violet tendrils lashing out at the shadows around him, hungry and responsive, drinking his fear and rage.
He would stumble from his makeshift camp to a nearby stream, splashing icy water on his face, trying to wash away the feeling of betrayal, the phantom pain, the screaming voice.
"It doesn't matter who they remember," he would tell his reflection, the mantra becoming weaker, more hollow each time. "The world is safe. The children in Oakhaven can laugh without fear of demons. The farmers can tend their fields. That is the prize. That is all that matters. My name is a small price to pay."
But the reflection in the water stared back with eyes that now shone with a persistent, unsettling purple. The gold was still there, but it was being fundamentally altered, intertwined with the void, creating a strange, new hue. The face in the water was still his, but the soul behind it was a battleground, and the war was turning. The violet was no longer just a streak; it was becoming the canvas upon which the gold was painted.