The world had shifted.
Aure felt it in the silence between heartbeats. In the way the stars seemed to blink slower tonight, like they too were watching. Like they remembered.
He stood barefoot in a ruined temple overrun by vines and fog, the marble beneath him cracked but still humming—whispers of forgotten rites long buried under moss and grief.
He touched the scar near his collarbone. It pulsed. Not with pain, but with recognition.
Something—or someone—had spoken across the veil. Not in words. In memory.
There it was again… the echo. A faint name on the wind, barely formed but heavy with weight.
Lian.
Aure's breath hitched. The mist around him rippled. He saw it now—threads in the air, silver and gold, reaching through the hollow, binding something unseen. Somewhere far away, something ancient stirred. Something his bones remembered even if his mind did not.
He had been dreaming of a sword. Not wielded against him… but for him. Held with shaking hands. A vow whispered into his blood.
And in every dream, he had turned back too late.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the rift opened.
And this time— Aure turned toward it.