Days passed in the Dust Realm, but days here were not like those above. There was no sun—only the slow collapse of broken time.
Eirian walked alone through the Valley of Whispers, where the wind did not blow—it breathed.
The ground wasn't earth, but compacted red soil, crunching underfoot like the bones of forgotten words. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision—not following, not fleeing… simply watching. Their eyes were pits of smoked glass, reflecting nothing.
Each step carried a heaviness that wasn't physical. It was like walking through the weight of his own forgotten regrets. The Soulbrand embedded in his chest whispered names he didn't recognize—names that tugged at his soul but vanished before he could grasp them.
But one day, he found a voice. A real one.
"You walk like you still think you exist."
Eirian turned sharply.
A boy, no older than twelve, stood barefoot atop a ruined obelisk. His skin was charcoal-gray, his eyes white and ancient, holding the weight of countless lifetimes.
"Who are you?" Eirian asked cautiously. He hadn't sensed the boy's presence at all—an impossible thing, even in this strange realm. A chill crept down his spine. 'Something's off. That boy isn't what he seems.'
"Someone who was remembered by mistake." The boy grinned. "I'm Dris. You must be the idiot who touched the Laws."
"Why are you here?"
Dris leapt down and walked past him casually. "I'm your guide now, Flameborn. You'll need one."
Eirian frowned. "Why?"
He narrowed his eyes. "How did he know I touched the Laws?" A flicker of tension stirred within him. His fingers clenched. He was ready to strike if needed.
Dris's eyes turned sharp, the playful mask vanishing.
"Because there are others who burn quietly. Souls who weren't erased. Souls who've waited for someone like you… to start the fire again."
"What is a Flameborn?" Eirian asked, keeping his voice calm. But his heart beat faster.
"Flameborn," Dris said slowly, tapping his finger against his temple, "are those born from nature's fire, not a womb."
He looked toward the sky, voice low. "It's a curse. The stronger they grow, the more their intelligence burns away—until they go mindless."
"Born from fire… not a womb? Then what am I? Some cursed weapon?"
Eirian didn't respond. Silence draped over them again.
After a while, Eirian made his decision. Dris knew too much, and Eirian knew too little. For now, he would follow.
The boy led him through the Valley of Whispers. They dodged lurking shadows and silent threats until they reached a hidden cave behind two twisted trees—a cavern filled with cracked soul mirrors.
Each mirror didn't reflect you… but what you could have been.
One showed Eirian as a hero. Another, a tyrant. A third… a corpse.
"You'll need to choose soon," Dris said quietly.
"Choose what?"
"Who you want to become… before the Realms decide for you."
Eirian's brow furrowed. "What's the use of these mirrors? What do I choose, and why?"
Dris's tone turned somber. "I can't see what's written in yours. It's shrouded in black mist. But sometimes… they reveal fragmented visions. Of what may come. If you're lucky."
So even Dris can't see through mine… Eirian's thoughts spun. What makes mine different?
"Give me some time to think."
He found a place near the cave wall, sitting on the cold stone. Hours passed. He stared into the mirror, searching for clarity.
And then, a vision struck. Not of Selia. But of himself—older, surrounded by the corpses of gods. His eyes burned with an ember that no one could extinguish.
"Eirian, are you alright?" Dris asked, noticing his trembling form. His white eyes glowed in the dim cave light.
Eirian snapped awake, breathing heavily. The dream clung to him like smoke. "Yes… I'm fine."
That vision… was that my future? Or… something I've already lived?
He stood, gaze falling on the only mirror still intact.
He stepped toward it.
Two meters away, his reflection came into view.
His sharp, phoenix-like eyes gleamed. His pale skin resembled carved jade. Long, jet-black hair flowed down his back. His body—lean but powerful—exuded quiet strength.
That's me. The real me. Just like before.
A question surged in his mind. "Am I not reincarnated? Is this my original body? Was my soul just… lost?"
A memory flickered. He and Selia, standing in a garden, sharing dreams.
Then—A whisper slithered through the cave.
The memory shattered.
Eirian turned around. "Dris… was that you?"
But the boy's eyes were wide, staring into the shadows.
A door had appeared. Black as a starless night, covered in ancient symbols, half-hidden behind a collapsed wall. A whisper oozed from its cracks. Not words—a breath.
Dris tossed a pebble. It dissolved mid-air.
"Red Star Dust…" he whispered. "Where the Dust Realm's war was lost. Where the last of the Flameborn died."
Eirian's Soulbrand pulsed—a dull, aching throb. "Why is it reacting?"
Dris shook his head, unease rising. "Why didn't we see this door before? Did the mirror awaken it?"
The cave walls felt alive—compact deaths fused with time and rage.
Then the whispers began: "You left us to fade…"
Shadows emerged. Not people. Not ghosts. Echoes of the erased. Their faces blurred like melting ink.
One lunged. Eirian's Soulbrand blazed—but the echo didn't burn.
It laughed, it sounded like glass breaking. "You can't kill what's already dead. But we can kill you."
The canyon stirred.
A voice echoed: "First Flameborn."
The echoes paused. They remembered. And memory was more lethal than blades.
A vision burned before them:
A battlefield. Black rain. A man with white eyes atop a mountain of corpses. A sword—no, a burning name—piercing heaven and earth.
Then the man turned.
"You shouldn't be here."
The ground ruptured. From the fissure crawled a corpse wrapped in chains of dead flame.
Its voice tore reality:"Little aura… is it you?"
Dris stepped back. "No. That's impossible. He's—"
"The First Flameborn," the corpse said, grinning.
Eirian's Soulbrand roared.
"Call me—Dain. The last general of the Forgotten Legion."
He didn't attack. He spoke: "The Dust Realm isn't where souls fade. It's where they burn clean."
He pointed at Eirian. "Your Soulbrand isn't a gift. It's an infection. A remnant of the Purple Mist Realm's extinction… four thousand years ago."
His voice halted—cut off by some force. A moment passed. Then continued "The gods didn't just erase us. They made the survivors forget we ever existed."
Dris trembled. "Then why does Eirian remember?"
The corpse grinned wider than possible. "Because his sister didn't just die for him."
He leaned in. "She sacrificed herself…"
A thought trembled in Eirian's mind—why did my sister sacrifice herself? What was that giant hand? Was there something hidden that I don't know?
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