A wave of blue covers my vision. Everything is quiet. Light has no feeling. The air feels thick.

The blood that was falling in the air is now frozen in place—hovering mid-motion. All I can feel are the pills melting in my throat. A burning sensation spreads to every inch of my body.

I look up at Halvard’s blade, just inches from my face. It’s the only thing that doesn’t seem frozen. It trembles—shaking, as if fearful of something.

I try to speak, to respond to the voice—but nothing comes out.

Inside the burning, I feel something moving. Not pain. Not power. Just something… foreign. My muscles begin to twitch. The veins in my head feel like they might burst. My vision starts to distort. No—the world itself is distorting, just slightly.

I think to myself, “Is this what death is like? Am I going insane? Is this a dream?”

Then I hear the voice again.

"You’ve taken in more than you should—but less than you are meant to."

Suddenly, a gush of air slams into me from nowhere, throwing me backward. The world around me darkens.

I blink. The arena is gone.

Looking up at the sky, I see no walls, no ceiling—just open blackness. I glance down and realize I’m standing on something smooth, reflective. It’s me—a perfect copy of myself below, mirroring every move. The floor is a mirror, filled with cracks.

I try to take a step, afraid I might fall through. As my foot touches the surface, the mirror cracks deeper. Shards shoot upward from the ground into the air, forming lights—stars—in the once-empty sky. Each step I take, more and more of the world forms around me, until I’m standing in a field of nothingness. No trees. No mountains. Just a horizon that stretches forever.

I wait. Looking around for anything—any change.

And then, out of nowhere, a massive silhouette rises in the sky, blotting out stars. A figure—ancient. Never fully visible. A hum, like the pulse of a dying world, echoes from its chest. From within it, a light begins to glow.

Then I hear the voice again, speaking through the world.

“Tolki, step forward and accept what your forefathers wish to bear witness to.”

I hesitate. But I step forward.

The moment my foot lifts, I’m pulled into the light—faster than I can comprehend. What I feel next isn’t pain, or power. It's an emotion. Centuries of it. Rage. Sorrow. Abandonment.

Images flood my mind. Lives I’ve never seen. Generations I’ve never known. I see a glimpse of a woman in snow—just for a heartbeat. Her face is blurred, hidden.

I feel myself accelerating, rushing through space and memory. At the end of the light, I see only darkness. And then, for one final time, the voice speaks—this time not urging, but warning.

“You were born from the broken. They will try to break you again.”

I crash through the darkness—through the mirror.

Emotion vanishes. Time snaps back into place.

I gasp.

I feel heat rising at my side. My dagger—my pitiful dagger—is glowing. Brighter and brighter. Light bursts from its hilt like it’s trying to tear itself free.

Halvard’s blade touches my skin.

I don’t feel it.

I see him recoil—eyes wide, not with focus… but with fear. He lowers into a stance.

And then I realize—I’m rising. I’m floating. Light as ash. And that foreign feeling in my chest? It’s no longer buried.

It’s starting to erupt.