When Ethan awoke, the chamber was gone. He stood alone in a corridor of polished crystal, every wall reflecting countless versions of himself. Each one stared back with a different expression: regret, wrath, ambition, sorrow.
The reflections spoke in whispers.
"Why did you run?" "You never deserved the throne." "She'll leave you. They always do."
He turned, breath shaking. "I'm not them."
"Aren't you?"
Meanwhile, Aelira wandered through a corridor of her own making. Here, memory and fear wove a maze. She saw Ethan fall—again and again. Different deaths. Different failures. She screamed for him, but he never answered.
At the maze's heart, they found each other again. She was shaking. He was pale. But their hands met, fingers interlocking like puzzle pieces refusing to separate.
They stood there, surrounded by the illusions of the past.
That night, beneath the soft dome of drifting memory-light, Aelira sat beside Ethan, her hand on his cheek. "You remind me of someone I dreamed about when I was still a child. I thought it was a story. But I think it was you."
He didn't answer with words. His answer was the kiss he returned—slow, hesitant at first, then certain. It grounded them, rewrote the tension, redefined the lines between soldier and survivor, between companions and something far deeper.
She whispered, forehead to his, "Don't get lost in them. I need you