THE WORLD THAT DENIES YOU
Evening was beginning to fall in the village. The sun, hidden behind gray clouds, let out weak rays that tinged the wooden roofs with a pale gold. The murmur of the villagers grew calmer; their voices mingled with the sound of the nearby river and the crackling of the torches that the men lit at the edge of the streets.
Zyrion, his heart still heavy, could no longer bear the distance. He watched her walk a few steps away from the group, observing some violet flowers growing near a wooden fence. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and there was a calmness in her posture that pierced him like a spear. It was Kyrahna. It was her, even though reality stubbornly tried to deny it.
He took a deep breath, his eyes moist, fighting against that boundary he didn't want to cross. Then, he moved toward her with heavy steps, as if each movement were an internal battle.
"Kyrahna…" he murmured, almost choking on his own breath.
She turned slowly, her expression calm, though puzzled. Her eyes rested on him with curiosity, not recognition.
"Do we know each other?" he asked, his voice firm but friendly, as if addressing any villager who dared to approach.
That tone struck Zyrion with devastating force. It was Kyrahna's voice, but she wasn't calling him by name, it wasn't piercing him with the intensity they always shared in battle. He felt empty, as if he'd been ripped from reality itself.
"Yes... we know each other," he replied, his voice breaking. "You've fought by my side. We've walked through ruins and faced storms together. You... you saved me more than once. Don't you remember any of that?"
Kyrahna watched him silently for a moment, tilting her head as if trying to decipher him. Finally, she shook her head gently.
"You must be confused. I don't know you. Maybe you're mistaking me for someone else."
Zyrion gritted his teeth, suppressing the trembling of his body. He took another step closer to her and lowered his voice, as if confiding a secret that shouldn't be missed.
"Kyrahna, I... I can't be wrong. Your words, your gaze, your decisions on the battlefield. It was you. You were there. You can't... you can't have forgotten all that."
She held his gaze, but her eyes reflected only confusion and a touch of discomfort. She took a step back.
"Listen, stranger, I don't mean to be cruel to you, but... I've never been in those battles you mention. My life has been different. I'm not the woman you say I was. Perhaps you're looking for someone else."
Zyrion felt something break deep inside him. The silence that fell between them was unbearable, heavy with a pain that overflowed within him. His chest burned, and for a moment, the tear he had always denied himself almost escaped.
But she held back. She lowered her head, closing her eyes tightly, and breathed shakily.
"What if... I remember everything? What if every word of yours, every decision, every shared wound... still lives inside me? What am I supposed to do if to me you are all that... and to you I am nothing?"
Kyrahna remained still. She didn't recognize him. She didn't hug him. She didn't save him this time. He was just an unfamiliar face that she looked at with strangeness.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, in an almost compassionate whisper. "I wish I could give you the answer you're looking for, but I don't have it."
Zyrion looked up, and his white eyes shone with that contained light, an entire sea about to overflow.
"So... maybe the mistake was mine. Maybe in this world... I was never anyone to you."
He turned slowly, letting the words hang in the air like a silent farewell. The wind blew through the trees, lifting dry leaves that swirled between them, separating them even further.
A few steps behind him, Miranth's voice rang out like a knife. "Look at this beautiful punishment. Illusion doesn't need to kill you with swords... only with memories that aren't yours."
And Psyrion added, colder, like the final blow. "This is your reflection, Zyrion. A place where even those you love most... live without you."
Zyrion continued walking, his face hardened and his eyes burning. He had reached the point where he could cry, but he hadn't crossed it yet. He wouldn't. Because if he cried, he would have to accept that it was all real.
And he was not willing to accept that Kyrahna had forgotten him.
Night had descended upon the village with a heavy silence, broken only by the rustling of branches in the wind. The air carried the scent of damp earth and stale ash, as if the place itself bore invisible scars from ancient battles. The bonfires around them illuminated everyone's weary faces, each spark seeming to reflect the tension and uncertainty that bound them together. In the center of that makeshift circle, Zyrion lay, his breathing ragged, his eyes half-closed, the white aura surrounding him flickering like a flame that refused to die.
Around them, everyone was gathered. Caelithra watched silently, her hands clasped tightly, trying to hide the trembling that coursed through her. Kyrahna kept her gaze fixed on Zyrion, as if trying to understand something that eluded her. Taliena kept biting her lip, and Karion, with his arms crossed, seemed to want to protect everyone, even though his expression was filled with worry.
On the other side, Velkran and Quindarion exchanged phrases in low voices, as if discussing what to do, while the newcomers —Cilera, Valric, Ryvak, Maerisse, Ysmera, Nivhira and Tzarelle— formed a semicircle, attentive, expectant, as witnesses to something too big to understand at that moment.
It was then that Quindarion raised his voice.
"He can't hold out any longer... if we keep waiting, we'll lose him."
Everyone looked at him. His words were not a shout, but a truth spoken with a weight that no one dared deny. Quindarion took a deep breath and added:
"That's why I called them... They're the only ones who can hold it."
And, as if the village itself had held its breath, two figures appeared. One, with an elegant bearing, enveloped in a cloak that seemed to distort the light around him: Miranth, the bearer of the Illusion Shard. The other, more austere, with deep eyes that seemed to pierce the very soul: Psyrion, bearer of the Mind Shard. No one else saw them arrive, except Zyrion, who barely opened his eyes and recognized their approaching silhouettes.
The young man wanted to get up, but Miranth raised a hand and his soft voice stopped him.
"Don't strain yourself, Zyrion. The illusion you're trapped in still weighs heavily on you, and your wounds run deeper than you realize."
Psyrion bent down beside him, placing a hand on his forehead. His words resonated only with Zyrion, like a shared thought.
"Your mind is torn apart... but not destroyed. There is still a thread we can hold onto, as long as you don't let go."
Zyrion swallowed, struggling to keep his voice steady, though his gaze searched among them all for Kyrahna, as if he still doubted whether she was real.
"So... is this all a dream? A deception that shows me what I desire or what I fear losing?"
Miranth looked at him with a strange seriousness, as if the answer itself might break the young man even more.
"It's not a dream, but it's not entirely real either. It's an interwoven reality... created to test you. And in that test, your pain is both an enemy and a key."
Caelithra leaned forward, looking at Zyrion without understanding who he was speaking to.
"Who are you talking to? Zyrion, look at me, I'm here."
The boy narrowed his eyes, hesitating, and for a moment a tear seemed to shine, although he refused to let it fall.
"Caelithra... I don't know if it's you, or if you're just another mask in this prison..."
Those present exchanged tense glances, for to them Zyrion was speaking to nothing. Velkran frowned and said in a grave voice:
"He's delirious. We need to stabilize him."
But Quindarion shook his head, his voice firm.
"No... he sees more than we can. If Miranth and Psyrion have come, it means there is still hope. We must trust in what we do not understand."
The tension grew as Zyrion clenched his fists tightly, as if trying to cling to life itself. Psyrion leaned closer, whispering only to himself.
"Listen to me, Zyrion. You are not alone. Though others cannot see us, we are here to support your mind. But you must make a choice: either you accept this false reality that offers you the comfort of what is lost, or you rise up, even if the pain tears you in two."
Zyrion looked at him with burning eyes, barely containing that inner sea that wanted to overflow.
"They always ask me to choose... always between pain and duty... How many more times must I endure this without breaking down?"
Miranth replied, his voice firm but also full of compassion.
"As many times as necessary... because your existence is not like that of others. You are the bearer of something that should not exist, and that is why the whole world forces you to resist."
The campfire crackled, and all those present—those who couldn't see the two bearers—fell silent, as if sensing something unseen was happening. The atmosphere was thick, almost suffocating, and yet, in that moment, everyone waited.
The circle of people around Zyrion closed tightly, each contributing their silence, their fear or their hope, while Miranth and Psyrion fought, invisible to all, to keep standing the one who could change the fate of all Kyrethron.
The prophecy's greatest secret is who wrote it.