Kalem stepped cautiously through the choking black corridor, each footfall a low echo swallowed by damp, shivering walls. The flame in his sword guttered low, no longer a beacon but a whisper of defiance.
Behind him, the remains of the crate clanked lightly at his side, bundled tight against his hip. It wasn't enough. It never had been. But it was what he had now. That had to be enough.
He kept moving—limping slightly, half-aware of the faint trail of blood he was leaving again. A part of him wondered how much of himself the Abyss had already stolen.
It was quieter now.
Too quiet.
Not even the voices mocked him.
That, more than anything, made his shoulders tense.
He rounded a bend, flame blade raised.
And stopped.
The tunnel opened into a clearing—perfectly circular, too perfect. At its center was a tree. A real one. Full and green, bathed in a soft golden light that didn't hurt his eyes. Grass swayed around it. The air smelled of wild lavender. He knew this place.
Arcathis Academy. The old training yard.
He took one step in and heard the bell.
The lunch bell.
He staggered. The sound carved a line through his spine.
"I don't—" He tried to speak, but his throat clenched.
He turned.
There they were.
Students.
All of them.
Moving in pairs and small groups across the field. Laughing, arguing, sparring. Nara with her staff slung lazily across her shoulder. Garrick scribbling something furious into a journal. Isolde walking alone but clearly listening to whatever Jhaeros was ranting about. Lyra asleep under the tree. And…
Kalem.
Another Kalem.
Standing near the steps with Onyx curled beside him.
Kalem's sword lowered a fraction.
"No," he said, voice dry. "This isn't right."
The other Kalem was laughing. Relaxed. No scars. No burned flesh. His armor polished and clean. And Onyx... whole. Breathing. Eyes shining in the way only he had ever known.
Kalem stepped forward. Slowly.
As if stepping across a memory would shatter it.
And then the wind shifted.
The grass didn't move with it.
The tree's bark… twitched.
Kalem froze.
The scent of lavender went bitter. Thick. Like spoiled perfume.
He looked closer.
Lyra's eyes were open now. But not blinking.
Just open.
Fixed.
Empty.
He turned to the crowd. To the students.
Too still.
Too slow.
Like wax figures in motion. Some of them moved with stutters. Others looped a motion—tying a boot, adjusting a collar—over and over.
Only the other Kalem remained fluid. And Onyx beside him.
Kalem took another step, now gripping his sword tightly.
Then the other Kalem turned his head—directly toward him.
And smiled.
Not a welcoming smile.
Too wide.
Too knowing.
Kalem felt the pressure building in his ears, like the Abyss was trying to push its way inside his skull.
"What are you?" he hissed.
The double stood up, slow and deliberate, brushing invisible dust from his chest plate.
"You. As you were."
The voice wasn't one of the whispers.
It was his voice.
Perfectly mirrored.
"You're not me," Kalem growled, lifting the sword again. The flame grew, guttering in strange angles, as if bending away from the space around the impostor.
The other Kalem didn't flinch.
"You gave me to the pit," it said. "All of this. For what? To burn? To chase ghosts? To pretend you're a martyr?"
Kalem grit his teeth, pushing past nausea and the sense of falling that had crept into his gut. "I made the choices I had to."
"And you'll make them again."
The doppelganger raised a hand—and Kalem noticed too late that the grass had begun crawling. Tendrils of it twisting, bone-white roots emerging like teeth, snapping upward.
He slashed out, fire cutting through illusion and matter alike, and the entire field screamed.
The students turned all at once.
Faces twisted, some hollow-eyed, others melting with rot, voices glitching out like broken strings—
"Traitor."
"Liar."
"Where were you?"
"You should've died."
"You let us die."
"We were real."
"We were real."
"We were real."
Kalem roared and charged through them, sword cleaving their shapes, their sounds, their guilt. Each one burst into light and ash, and still more came.
Onyx leapt at him then—not his Onyx. A warped echo. Its horns blackened, jaw split down the middle, eyes nothing but empty sockets glowing dim red.
Kalem didn't stop.
He plunged his sword into the beast's chest, eyes shut, gritting his teeth as it whimpered—not growled, whimpered—and collapsed in a heap of flame and broken memory.
Silence.
Then breath.
His breath.
He opened his eyes.
The field was gone.
Ash. Stone. The corridor again.
His blade was low. Trembling.
He didn't know how long he'd been standing there. His chest hurt. His legs were cramping. He leaned against a wall and gasped for air.
"Old wounds," came a whisper. Not mocking. Not this time.
"New teeth."
Kalem looked down at his hand.
Still shaking.
Still burning.
He didn't put the sword away.