The sun dipped low, bleeding into a horizon that resembled a molten sheet of gold. Light washed over the plains, soft and heavy, as if the world itself were holding its breath for what was to come.
Eiden stood solitary in the tall grass, the wind tugging at his black cloak. His white hair drifted across his face, each strand glowing faintly in the dying light. He watched the sky shift from gold to amber, the silence of the field pressing against him.
Alright… Ou'weii, Uzak'me…the plan begins. I hope it goes well.
He reached behind him, drawing his longsword. The blade sang as it cleared the scabbard—a soft, metallic sigh that lingered in the air. He held the steel upright, watching it catch the final, piercing rays of the sun.
Then, he placed his left hand over his heart.
He inhaled, a deep and deliberate draw of air.
A faint aura flickered beneath his palm—black and white, swirling like two opposing tides caught in a narrow channel. The atmosphere tightened, humming with a strange, ancient pressure that made the grass go still.
Eiden slowly pulled his hand away from his chest.
Something followed it.
An essence. A soul.
It drifted from him like a wisp of starlight, suspended between his fingers—shimmering, pulsing, and undeniably alive. He held it out toward the twilight, then, with a controlled motion of his will, he split it.
Two halves formed in the palm of his hand.
One was black, heavy with the gravity of regret, the weight of old choices, and the long shadows of the man he used to be. The other was white, bright, and piercingly pure, carrying the clarity of a potential path—a future that would strip away half of his memories, half of his burdens, and half of the pain that had defined him.
Eiden stared at them both for a heartbeat. Then, he swapped them.
The white soul drifted into his chest, sinking into his ribs like a breath of mountain air. His body shuddered, eyes widening as the essence took root.
The black soul drifted toward the longsword.
It coiled around the blade like smoke, stretching along the cold steel until it reached the hilt. The aura tightened, then sank inward, disappearing into the weapon as if the metal had swallowed it whole.
The sword fell silent. Dormant.
Eiden sheathed the weapon slowly, his expression a blank mask. He looked back up at the darkening sky.
I hope we pull our battle off well… Uzak'me.
He closed his eyes.
And the memories came. Not as a trickle, but a flood.
Vaelus laughing as he tripped over his own boots. Morvath's calm, gravelly voice guiding him through the old forms. Selyndra's golden hair catching the firelight during those long nights at the hearth. Dravien's quiet, unshakable loyalty. Iris's sharp wit and the soft concern she tried to hide. Seraphaine's gentle smile as she handed him a cup of tea.
Moments of warmth. Moments of strength. Moments where he had felt human.
They flashed through his mind in a single, agonizing heartbeat.
Then—a voice.
Cold. Sharp. Unmistakable.
"It is time you meet your death, Eiden."