The garden was gone.
The ground cracked beneath them, blooming with veins of pulsing blue energy that lit up the night-like atmosphere.
The twisted versions of themselves—born from fear and mana—stepped forward in eerie synchronization, mirroring their hosts with uncanny precision.
Cullen's dark self was first to move.
He struck like lightning, his hands wreathed in unstable mana. He moved with precision Cullen lacked—unburdened by guilt, shame, or restraint.
Real Cullen barely deflected the first barrage. The air around him rippled with kinetic bursts, each strike more violent than the last. His smirk was gone, replaced with a clenched jaw and wide eyes.
"You play the fool so they won't look too close," his shadow taunted, voice warped, almost oily. "You run because you're afraid you'll actually become me."
"I'm nothing like you," Cullen spat, dodging to the side.
"But you could be," it hissed, throwing a spear of condensed mana. "If you stop pretending to care."
