Her eyes, twin vortexes of white fire, held no recognition.
West skidded to a halt.
"Frost," he said, chest heaving. "It's me."
Thawsoul didn't speak.
Instead, her form split—five versions of her peeling from the original like shards of light fracturing through glass. Each one wore a different expression: sorrow, fury, resolve, innocence, and something cold and hollow that he couldn't name.
West's grip tightened around his tether stone.
"I'm not here to break you. I'm here to bring you back."
The Shards of the Self
One of the shards moved first—the angry one, burning bright with storm-sigil tattoos etched across her arms. She let out a scream that cracked the mirrored snow beneath them and lunged.
West ducked. The shard's blade, forged from pure mnemonic frost, sliced past him and struck the ground. A tremor radiated from the impact, shattering memories underfoot—his childhood, her laughter, their first sparring match.
