The night had fallen over the Academy, draping the stone spires and echoing halls in a deep indigo, pierced only by the dim glow of warding sigils. Within the quiet sanctum of his chamber, Keran stood alone, his cloak trailing like a shadow behind him, fingers brushing against the orb that had pulsed so insistently during the confrontation in the valley. The whispers of the Eidolon of Decay lingered in his mind, persistent as the residue of some long-forgotten dream, yet sharper now—razor-edged, insistent, calling forth fragments of memory he had thought irretrievably buried.
He sat, cross-legged, in the center of the chamber, closing his eyes as a low hum resonated through his very bones. The pulse of the orb synchronized with the rhythm of his heartbeat, amplifying faint tremors of energy within him—echoes not merely of the encounter, but of something older, something that had never truly faded. And then, as though the veil between time and consciousness had thinned to a mere wisp, a vision broke through.
It was a village, small and humble, bathed in the warm hues of morning sunlight. Children ran across dirt paths, laughter spilling freely, weaving through the air like silver threads. Keran could feel it—he was there, yet not fully; he was Ethan once again, a boy unscarred by the weight of vengeance, untested by the cruel indifference of fate. The aroma of baked bread and smoke mingled together, comforting yet distant, as if sensed through some distorted lens of memory. And then, she appeared—a fleeting silhouette, a girl with hair glinting like sunlight upon rippling water, a smile that carried all the innocence he had once known. Lira.
The image fractured suddenly. Flames licked the edges of the vision, and laughter was replaced by screaming. Shadows pressed against the edges of the village, indistinct shapes moving with unnatural intent. The air grew thick and acrid; the warmth of memory turned to searing heat. Keran's chest tightened, a visceral ache that felt as though it had always been a part of him, hidden beneath layers of reincarnation and training. The orb at his side throbbed, resonating with the tremors of his soul, matching the cadence of this fractured recollection.
A whisper threaded through the flames, distant yet unmistakable. "Keran… Ethan…" The names collided, echoing in his mind like a chorus of guilt and longing. He clenched his fists, resisting the pull of the vision, yet unable to fully disengage. His heart pounded in tandem with the memories—the laughter, the light, the smoke, the panic—and then the name again: "Lira." It was not spoken by any living voice, yet it struck him with the force of reality, immediate and undeniable.
The chamber was silent, yet the echoes of that dream lingered in the air, curling around the stone walls like spectral fingers. Keran exhaled sharply, eyes opening to find Flora standing in the doorway, threads of her energy taut, sensing the disturbance.
"Keran…" she said cautiously, stepping closer. "I… I felt it. Your energy—it's fractured. You've seen something…"
He remained silent for a long moment, staring at the faint glow of the orb, which pulsed rhythmically as if in conversation with his memories. "A vision," he admitted finally, voice low and measured. "Not of the present, but of what was. What I… once was. The name they spoke—it calls to what remains buried within me."
Maria entered then, illusions shimmering faintly around her, revealing patterns that even she could not fully interpret. "Fragments of memory," she murmured, voice soft yet precise. "Not merely personal recollection. Your essence resonates with it—threads of time, echoes of past life… They are manifesting because the confrontation awakened more than just your power. It awakened your soul."
Keran's jaw tightened. The chamber felt smaller now, walls closing in with the weight of suppressed recollection. "I thought it was gone. Thought it had died with Ethan." His fingers brushed the surface of the orb, and he felt the faint tug of energy, as if it were responding to his inner turmoil, to the stirrings of a memory that refused to be denied. "But it is not. And she… Lira…"
Flora's threads quivered, sensing the turbulence within him. "The creature's words, the name… it's a key. Something more than recognition. It is a trigger. The past you have carried—even in fragments—is drawing the present toward a confrontation yet unseen."
Keran exhaled, standing slowly, the weight of revelation pressing against him yet sharpened by clarity. "If the past reaches for me again, then I'll reach back—with everything I've become." His voice held steel, a vow unyielding, though shadows of the vision lingered in the corners of his mind. He had glimpsed the innocence, the danger, and the fire. And he had known for the first time the personal cost of what had been lost.
Betty, ever analytical, approached the orb and traced a delicate line of energy, murmuring calculations. "Your aura fluctuated significantly during the vision. Residual energy spikes suggest that your memory is not fully reconciled. The Eidolon's recognition was not coincidental—it detected a resonance within your soul that is unique. This is not mere coincidence or chance—it is a signal, an alignment."
Brittany, quiet as ever, rested a hand upon his shoulder, her voice a soft anchor. "Some wounds are older than time, Keran. They are carried in the spirit. What you saw… what you felt… it is a calling. Perhaps to understand, perhaps to correct, but always to act. Remember this feeling, for it will guide your path."
Keran nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their counsel. The silence was profound, broken only by the distant howl of the wind outside and the faint echo of the valley beyond the Academy's walls. He could almost feel the presence of something gathering, forces unseen but moving toward a collision with fate.
He knelt briefly, placing his hand upon the orb once more. Visions lingered in its glow—hints of decay, of entropy, but also of order and intent, as if the orb itself whispered possibilities to him. "This is only the beginning," he murmured. "The confrontation is yet to come. And I will not falter when the past calls my name."
Maria stepped back, her illusions dimming slightly. "The past… it has weight, but it is not the master of your present. Let it inform you, guide you—but do not let it consume. You are not Ethan anymore. You are Keran."
He allowed a ghost of a smile, fleeting and faint. "Keran, yes. And yet… part of me will always remember. That fragment of a life, a sister, a village… echoes of what was and what must yet be reconciled."
Outside, the Academy lay under the watchful eye of the moon, wards faintly glowing. The threads of fate had begun to entangle, weaving past and present, innocence and vengeance, memory and action. Keran's steps from that chamber would carry not only skill and strategy, but also the weight of remembrance—the first true stirrings of the vengeance that would one day reshape the course of worlds.
The night deepened. Silence returned, but it was not peace. It was anticipation. And within it, a single truth persisted: the past was not gone. It waited, patient and relentless, and Keran would meet it head-on, fully armed with the knowledge, power, and resolve of both lives.