THE LIE THAT PROTECTS
The village was shrouded in an eerie calm. The surrounding mountains breathed a soft mist, as if the trees and stones sought to shield this corner of the world from the war. Children ran among the wooden houses, laughing with an innocence that seemed impossible in a world crumbling around them. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the faint smoke from the bonfires, and for the first time in a long time, Zyrion felt something akin to belonging.
Sitting near the fire, he watched Caelithra trying to teach some children a game with stones and carved runes. Her laughter was genuine, free, and for a moment he forgot the weight on his chest. Kyrahna was farther away, arguing with Velkran about the best way to fortify the village entrances. Taliena had found a space to train, and her sword whistled through the air with flawless precision.
"It feels... too unreal," Zyrion muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Caelithra heard him and turned to face him, smiling. "Not everything has to be battle, Zyrion. There are also places that resist chaos. Don't overthink it."
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to accept that this moment of peace was real.
But as she reached out to catch a spark that jumped from the fire, she felt that faint pulse in her veins again. Gray. A heartbeat that wasn't her own.
That night, the village held a small gathering in the central square. Food, stories, and soft string music were shared. Zyrion stood by the edge, watching everyone with a mixture of relief and nostalgia. It was a perfect scene... too perfect.
Then an old man approached him. His face was etched with wrinkles, and his dark eyes were as deep as an abyss filled with secrets. He leaned on a black wooden cane.
"Zyrion, right?"
He nodded cautiously.
The old man bowed his head, observing him closely. "Your aura... is not that of an ordinary traveler. Not even that of an ordinary carrier. I have seen many fragments in my life, and none pulses like yours."
The silence between them was thick. Zyrion pressed his lips together.
"You're mistaken," he replied calmly. "I'm just a warrior who survived too many battles."
The old man gave a short, dry laugh. "You can fool others, boy, but not someone who has seen what I saw. Your eyes... those gray ones that don't belong to this world... are the same ones I once observed in the tales of the ancients."
Caelithra approached at that moment, noticing the tension. "Is everything alright here?"
"Yes," Zyrion replied, in a tone that cut the conversation off at the root.
But the old man, before leaving, let his last words fall like a dagger in the darkness:
"The son of fire and emptiness... sooner or later, everyone will recognize him. And then, this peace will be nothing but ashes."
Zyrion felt a chill run down his spine.
Later, when silence enveloped the village, Zyrion walked away to a nearby river. He looked at his reflection in the water and for a moment didn't recognize himself. His gray eyes shone like extinguished moons.
"What are you now...?" he murmured.
The leaves rustled behind him.
Caelithra approached slowly, her face troubled. "You're lost between two worlds, Zyrion. I saw it in your eyes today. You're here, with us... but at the same time, you're not."
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"Caelitra... what would you do if you discovered that the person you trust... isn't who they seem to be?"
She didn't hesitate. She sat beside him and placed her hand in his. "Then I would remind him that he isn't defined by what runs in his blood or what others fear about him. He is defined by what he chooses to be in each moment. And I believe in what you choose to be."
The silence of the forest was broken only by the murmur of the river. Zyrion wanted to answer, but the gray pulse returned, stronger. And in the depths of his mind, an ancient voice resonated.
"Zyrion..."
It was Caelithra. But not the Caelithra of flesh and blood, but another. Her voice came from beyond that illusion.
"Wake up... this place isn't real. If you stay, you'll lose everything you are."
Zyrion opened his eyes. The village was still there. Caelithra was still holding his hand. But inside him... another reality was trying to pull him back.
He gritted his teeth. He didn't know how much longer he could keep the two realities separate.
Peace was beautiful. But fragile.
And someone —perhaps himself— was about to break it.
Night fell over the lonely fields where Zyrion had fallen, his wound still open in his side, the memory of the man in the white mask weighing heavily on his thoughts. The stars twinkled faintly, as if afraid to witness the secrets that night were about to be revealed. The fire of a small campfire crackled, breaking the heavy silence that hung among the bare trees and damp, moss-covered stones.
Zyrion was breathing heavily, leaning against a tree trunk. The old man who accompanied him stood a few steps away, his figure bent and trembling in the firelight. His eyes seemed too deep, as if they held centuries of secrets in a weary gaze.
"Why are you helping me?" Zyrion asked hoarsely, finally breaking the silence. "You don't know me, you don't know what I carry inside... or what my blood craves."
The old man smiled slowly, his expression heavy with mystery. His voice was raspy, as if each word were carefully chosen. "You're wrong, boy. I know you better than you can imagine. I've been with you, long before your white eyes opened to the power that haunts you. I've been watching your every step, every decision, every scar."
Zyrion gritted his teeth. "That doesn't answer anything. Who are you really?"
The old man sat down opposite him, his wrinkled hands reaching toward the fire. The glow illuminated his wrinkled face, but something strange began to emerge: the shadows behind his silhouette didn't match his movements. It was as if two more figures were hidden within that single presence.
Zyrion frowned, his fingers wanting to grip his sword, but the old man raised a trembling hand, stopping him.
"Do not fear. What you are seeing... is not what it seems. The body you see is nothing more than a disguise, an illusion forged to walk among mortals without attracting attention. My existence here is the result of two wills that have decided to unite, to watch over what must not yet be revealed."
Zyrion straightened up slightly, his breath ragged. "What are you saying? A disguise? Who are you really?"
It was then that the air around the old man shattered like invisible glass. A flash expanded from his chest, and for an instant the fire bent back as if drawn by an invisible void. Before Zyrion's eyes, the old man's figure fragmented into flashes of smoke and crystal, revealing something impossible: two overlapping presences, vibrating in the same reality.
A voice resonated first, soft, almost mocking. "Illusion is the art of deceiving the eyes, but not the hearts."
And another voice joined in, deeper, more penetrating, as if speaking directly into Zyrion's mind. "The mind is the realm where truth hides, and also where the most convincing lie can be sown."
The figures rose from the smoke. One wore dark robes that shimmered with iridescent reflections, his face hidden behind a shifting veil, impossible to focus on; this was Miranth, bearer of the Illusion Shard . The other, with eyes shining like an infinite mirror, radiated a power that seemed to penetrate even the innermost thoughts; this was Psyrion, bearer of the Mind Shard .
Zyrion stared at them in disbelief. "You... were you the old man? Have you been watching me in that form all this time?"
Miranth inclined his head slightly, his words laced with a theatrical air. "The old man was a character I created. Just one more mask among thousands. The world sees what I want it to see. But without Psyrion, that illusion wouldn't have lasted so long… he anchored it in your mind and in the minds of others so that it would be undetectable."
Psyrion took a step forward, his eyes shining brightly. "We didn't do it out of malice, Zyrion. We didn't do it to deceive you in vain. We did it because there were truths you weren't prepared to bear. Truths that would have broken your spirit before your time."
Zyrion clenched his fists in barely contained rage. "So they manipulated me. They made me trust someone who didn't exist."
"He existed in what you needed," Miranth replied calmly. "The old man you saw was real, because he was real to you. He listened to you, advised you, and supported you in moments when no one else could. Weren't your emotions genuine when you trusted him?"
The fire flickered, projecting the figures of the two carriers onto the rocks as if they were spectral colossi.
Psyrion leaned toward him, his voice resonating directly in the young man's mind. "Your path is heavier than you imagine. The man in the white mask is not the only enemy you will have to face. We conceal ourselves in that form to guide you without the other wielders or Umbraek knowing. For what you carry... and what you are... must not yet be revealed."
Zyrion breathed heavily, as if torn between anger and understanding. Silence enveloped him for a few seconds, broken only by the rustling of the night branches.
Finally, she murmured, "So what do they want from me now? If they've been secretly by my side, if they played with my trust... what do they expect from me?"
Miranth and Psyrion exchanged a silent glance, as if speaking without words. Then, Psyrion turned to face him.
"We want nothing, Zyrion. We only want you to survive. Because the moment the truth of what you are comes to light... even we fear what might be unleashed."
The wind blew violently at that moment, almost completely extinguishing the campfire. Darkness covered the clearing, leaving only the white glow in Zyrion's eyes, shining like two embers in the middle of the night.
A sealed truth sleeps beneath the ruins.