The focus returned to Zevyr.
The energy surrounding him had settled, no longer surging or expanding, as if the transformation had been paused by choice rather than force.
Ryan broke the silence, his voice steadier than the thoughts churning inside him.
"You said you were made for this," he said.
"The one who made you—your master, Zoifan.
Who is he?"
Zevyr studied him for a long moment.
His gaze did not rest on Ryan alone, but on something far older…something buried beneath memory itself.
For an instant, the stillness cracked.
A vision flashed.
Zoifan stood in a world untouched by division, a sorcerer whose power had no color, no name…dense, whole, like magic before it learned how to separate itself.
Then another vision followed, heavier than the first.
Zoifan again, surrounded by circles of exile. His eyes were calm. His voice absolute, casting a judgment from which there was no return.
The vision faded.
Zevyr returned his attention to the field.
"When the world was one," he said calmly.
Eileen frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Before the kingdoms," Zevyr replied.
"Before division. Before Light, Healing, and Shadow were given names."
He took a single step forward.
"There was only one kingdom."
Sera inhaled sharply.
"That doesn't exist in any record," Ryan said.
Zevyr smiled faintly.
"Because history is not written by those who lost."
He continued without raising his voice.
"In that kingdom, all beings lived together. But hierarchy ruled everything…and it was harsher than any war."
Eileen spoke softly.
"And who changed that?"
"One sorcerer," Zevyr answered.
"One who refused to let power be decided by birth."
Ryan felt something shift inside his chest.
"And what happened?"
"The world split," Zevyr said.
"Exile followed. And the forest was created."
Silence settled heavily around them.
Then Zevyr added, his tone calm and final:
"And I… was one of the outcomes of that decision."