Their footsteps echoed through the void as Towan walked beside his mirror image, the endless darkness around them pulsing like a living thing. The silence between them was comfortable, yet charged with unspoken questions.
"So..." his double finally broke the quiet, voice carefully neutral. "What happened after Heartwood?" The question hung in the air—casual in tone, but weighted with purpose. He wasn't just asking for facts; he wanted Towan to retrace his steps, to see his own journey with new eyes.
Towan exhaled slowly as mories rose like ghosts from the abyss. "Well..." The word lingered as the void before them shimred and dissolved.
A rustic inn materialized from the darkness, its wooden sign—'The Drunken Hound'—creaking gently in an unfelt breeze. Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, carrying with it the phantom sounds of clinking glasses and raucous laughter. Towan's lips curved unconsciously at the sight. "Leon took us to Lockeheart first." His voice softened. "Had a friend there—Herb. Gave us work while we... recovered." The pause spoke volus.
The scene blurred like watercolors in rain, reforming into a familiar dojo. Sunlight stread through high windows, illuminating drifting dust motes above well-worn training mats. "Then," Towan continued, running a hand along a phantom post he'd once kicked daily, "he brought us here."
His double went very still. Though his face remained composed, his eyes—wide, almost hungry—betrayed him. (It's been so long...) The thought was a whisper, but it carried the weight of centuries. The way his fingers twitched at his sides suggested he wanted nothing more than to touch the wooden beams, to verify their reality.
Towan's fingers brushed against the phantom punching bag, its worn leather surface almost tangible under his fingertips. The roar of the waterfall filled the space between them, its mist cooling skin that no longer felt the spray. "He trained us for a month or so," Towan said, watching his younger self struggle through forms in the dojo's yard. "Taught us the basics—though I've yet to see anyone who could match him." The words carried both admiration and sothing heavier—the weight of impossible standards.
His double observed the scene with quiet intensity, taking in every detail of the training ground like a man rediscovering lost treasure. "He seed like a good teacher," he murmured, though his eyes lingered on the waterfall's relentless flow—perhaps seeing more than just water in its plunge.
The world dissolved in a ripple of displaced air.
Suddenly they stood atop Stoneveil's towering battlents, the wind howling through the city's signature granite spires. Below them, the tropolis sprawled like a carved chessboard, its geotric precision contrasting with the organic chaos of the training grounds. "We ca here next," Towan said as their surroundings solidified.
A black-haired figure materialized mid-movent—Lytharos demonstrating a technique so fluid it seed to defy physics. "And we learned..." Towan continued, watching his past self mirror the stance with clumsy determination, "...that there's more to combat than raw strength."
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The double's breath caught slightly—just enough to notice—as Lytharos adjusted young Towan's stance with patient hands. A mory within a mory, folding in on itself.
The world blurred like wet ink as the mory reshaped itself around them.
"It all went downhill here," Towan murmured, watching his past self and Elliot huddle over an ancient to in so forgotten archive. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight as their younger fingers traced strange symbols on the leather-bound cover. "So kind of artifact recognized us," present-Towan explained, his voice tight. "As far as I understood..." A pause. The words ca out heavier than intended. "It has connections to other tilines."
With an audible click, the book sprang open of its own accord. Pages fluttered until they settled, revealing illustrations that glowed faintly with otherworldly light.
His double's breath hitched. "Wait..." He leaned in, disbelief widening his eyes. "That's... ."
Towan's head snapped around so fast his neck popped. "Wait, really?"
The page displayed a series of captured monts—Towan and Elliot sparring in so unfamiliar courtyard, Sylra laughing as she balanced on a rooftop ledge, Alira adjusting her glasses while studying a scroll. And there, in the center, all four of them together, frozen in ti mid-celebration, their faces alight with unguarded joy.
A soft, almost wounded sound escaped the double's throat. His fingers hovered over the images, not quite touching. "I rember those days," he whispered. The nostalgia in his voice carried the weight of centuries—not just mory, but mourning for sothing irretrievably lost.
The pages glowed brighter in response, as if the artifact itself rembered.
Towan's expression flickered between surprise and grim understanding—so part of him had always suspected this connection. "Turns out," he continued, voice lowering, "the Circle of Ourothan wanted this book." The na left a bitter taste. "A cult that worships corruption like it's so damned religion."
His double's fingers twitched toward the book before pulling back. "What happened with it?" he asked, shelving his personal shock about the artifact for later.
The void rippled like disturbed water, reforming into the shattered remains of a Stoneveil inn room. Plaster dust hung in the air, swirling around broken furniture and the glitter of shattered glass.
Three figures stood frozen in the tableau: young Towan, Elliot and Sylra crouched defensively behind Leon—except Leon wasn't just Leon anymore. A crimson aura licked at his skin like living fla, casting hellish shadows across the wreckage.
"We got ambushed by assassins," Towan explained, watching his past self wipe blood from his lip. His gaze fixed on the figure opposite them—Sereth, blade drawn, face unreadable.
"And Leon—who we learned was really nad Rheon—" The na carried new weight now. "Used Vital Essentia to..." A hard swallow. "...kill him."
His double's eyes went wide. (Rheon? Why did he hide his na?) The realization hit like a physical blow.
"Did he die?" The question ca out sharper than intended.
Towan's smile was thin but genuine. "Luckily, no." His fingers absently traced the phantom pain in his own chest. "But he's been in a coma since. From what I've heard..." A pause heavy with unspoken guilt. "His channels were already damaged from fighting the Corruptor. Using Vital Essentia just... finished the job."
"I see." His double's voice was carefully neutral as the scene dissolved into a quiet infirmary room, the three of them battered but alive, slumped in various states of exhausted recovery.
Towan's hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into palms. "I wasn't strong enough. Again." The words tasted like ashes. Sowhere in the mory, his younger self mirrored the gesture, bandaged fists trembling in his lap.
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