The memories resumed.
They slammed into Kael's consciousness like a fist through glass, and suddenly he was there—standing in the ruins of what had once been a palace, surrounded by ash and silence and the copper-thick stench of blood.
Damian was fifteen years old.
He stood alone in the wreckage of his world, white hair matted with soot, eyes hollow with something that had once been innocence. The bracelet on his wrist pulsed with cold comfort—his mother's last gift, his father's last command.
Survive.
So he survived.
The bracelet was more than a storage ring.
Kael felt Damian access it for the first time and nearly choked on the sheer volume of resources inside.
