The moment Lucien crossed through the gate, the world broke.
Not shattered — just… rearranged.
Like stepping into a memory that wasn't hers.
The sky above was a dull, endless gray.
No sun. No stars. Just motionless clouds suspended like torn silk.
She stood on cracked stone, stretched across a quiet plain. The trees here were ash-colored, leafless, whispering even though no wind moved them.
Lucien looked down at her feet.
Her shadow was split in two.
"What… is this place?"
A voice echoed — not from behind her, not ahead… but from inside.
"The Soul Realm… is not a place."
"It's every version of you… waiting to be remembered."
She spun around, searching.
No one. Just shifting echoes and strange silhouettes in the fog.
She took a step forward. The ground pulsed beneath her feet.
Then — the world changed.
Suddenly, she was standing in her old home.
Exactly how she remembered it.
Even the cracked teacup on the shelf.
Even the faint scent of lavender her mother used to wear.
"This is impossible…" she whispered.
A chair creaked in the corner.
She turned—fast.
There, sitting calmly in the dark—
Was her younger self.
Twelve. Dressed in old, worn robes. Eyes full of questions and fire.
"You came back," the young Lucien said.
The real Lucien froze.
"What is this?"
Younger Lucien stood, stepping closer.
"You forgot who you were. So I waited."
Lucien's throat tightened.
The younger version of herself raised a hand, touching Lucien's chest.
"You're not broken. Just unfinished."
And then — her eyes turned completely white. The glyphs flared along her arm like burning tattoos.
The air trembled.
The younger Lucien whispered:
"She didn't just teach you spells."
"She gave you the key."
And with a sudden push — the younger version shoved her backwards into the fog.
Lucien fell again — but this time, into a blaze of light.
And as she screamed, the voices of the dead whispered:
"You are not the end of the story…"
"…you are the return."