The stranger's voice haunted Aure as he walked away. That name—Aure. It felt like a song sung in a language he used to know. His body didn't react. But his blood did. It shivered. The way he called my name seemed familiar. Where have we met? But he doesn't have a familiar face,may be I am mistakening him for someone.
That night, sleep came with weight.
And in the dream…
He stood in a stone hall lit by flame and fury. Rain pounded outside—no moon, just thunder. His hands were bloody—not with injury, but choice. He had made a vow. And someone had broken it.
"No matter what they take from me," a voice whispered, hoarse and raw, "I will find you again. Even if I'm no longer myself."
Aure turned—and there he was. The man from the mountain pass.
Kneeling.
Cloak torn. Sword laid down at his feet like an offering.
Eyes full of grief and fire.
And just before the dream slipped into fog, he reached for his hand, trembling:
"Don't forget me. Even if they try to make you."
And then—
The burning. The flash. The blade. And the world tore apart.
Aure woke, gasping.
His hands ached. His chest glowed faintly.
He didn't know the man's name. But now, when he saw his face in memory… he didn't seem like a stranger.
He saw someone who had wept for him.
And someone who he may have once died for.