While Kael and Serida stood against the Core's collapse, Lira was alone.
She had followed them through the spiral gate, guided by the tether between Echoes. The pathway twisted, devoured logic. Shadows slithered in the corners of her vision. She didn't breathe so much as remember how to breathe.
The Core's realm didn't obey nature. It obeyed memory. And memory… could lie.
Lira felt the presence again.
She had felt it since Grythvault. A weight in her spine. A gaze on the back of her head. In dreams, it stood in the doorway — faceless, silent. Always watching.
And now it stepped forward.
The corridor she walked narrowed into a long tunnel made of black glass. Her reflection walked with her. But there was something else — just behind it, slightly off. A shadow out of sync.
Lira paused.
So did the reflection.
But the other did not.
A second silhouette moved in the mirrored wall — same frame as hers, but wrong. Its smile was too wide. Its head tilted like a predator testing prey.
And then, it spoke.
> "You forgot me."
Lira froze.
The voice was hers. Almost.
But not quite.
She took a step back.
The figure stepped forward — passing through the mirror without breaking it. It emerged into the corridor like oil flowing from a crack, slowly solidifying into a humanoid shape: same height, same face, same armor.
But the eyes…
They weren't human.
They were empty.
Lira drew her blade.
"What are you?"
It tilted its head, then smiled wider.
> "I'm what you left behind.
I'm the piece you threw away to survive."
Lira's hand trembled. "No. You're just an echo."
> "So are you." the figure replied, stepping closer.
"I'm the one who remembered when you chose to forget.
When you stood before a child with shaking hands and made a choice."
"Mercy? Justice? Doesn't matter. You chose the blade."
Lira's breath caught.
"I did what I had to," she whispered.
The double laughed — a horrible, choked sound. "You always say that. But in every life, Lira, you run. You bury your regrets under purpose. You fight, not because it's right — but because it's easier than feeling."
Lira slashed out — a clean horizontal arc.
The figure vanished — then reappeared behind her.
> "Do you remember her?" it asked, voice soft now. "The girl with white braids? The one who begged for her mother before you ended it?"
Lira's chest heaved.
"Stop."
> "You don't remember her name. That's the worst part. You buried it like the others. Like you buried me."
"I said stop!"
She lunged, her blade flashing — slicing the air where the thing stood. This time, her strike connected — and the figure burst into smoke.
But the smoke spoke.
> "You are the Blade. The Hand of Mercy.
But who showed you mercy, Lira?"
The corridor shattered.
Glass exploded outward — and she stood in a new place.
A memory she had long since sealed away.
The battlefield was still soaked in blood. She was younger. No scars. Armor too big for her shoulders.
And at her feet… a child.
A real one.
A girl. Maybe six years old. Trembling. Crying. Alone.
The younger Lira raised her blade.
Lira screamed. "No!"
But the memory played out anyway.
The reflection repeated the moment — over and over. Not with cruelty. With clarity.
> "This was the choice that made you.
The birth of the Blade.
And you never forgave yourself."
Lira fell to her knees, hands over her ears.
"I had no choice," she whispered.
> "But you did," the shadow said. "And you chose silence. You chose forgetting. That's why I followed you."
It stepped out from the memory again — now wearing her armor exactly. It looked identical.
Except for the eyes.
Still empty.
"You are not me," Lira said, voice hoarse.
The figure knelt beside her.
> "Then prove it."
It held out a blade — her own — mirror polished.
> "Take it. End me. Bury the guilt again.
Or accept me.
And become whole."
Lira looked up.
In the distance, she felt it — the bond to Kael. To Serida. Faint, strained, but alive.
They were waiting.
But this… this thing…
It wasn't just a memory. It was a fragment. A scar.
To run from it again would mean never healing.
Her fingers wrapped around the blade.
And she turned it.
Toward herself.
The shadow flinched — the first time it had shown fear.
Lira held the tip to her own chest.
"I won't forget her," she whispered. "Not anymore."
The corridor burned with light.
And the figure screamed.
Not from pain.
From release.
It shattered — not like glass, but like shadow exposed to truth. Lira's armor dimmed, then glowed — her blade's edge sharpened with runes she hadn't seen before.
For the first time since Grythvault, the presence was gone.
But in its place… was peace.
The kind that doesn't erase pain — but holds it, quietly.
A voice whispered in her ear.
Her own voice.
> "I remember her name.
And that's enough."
She rose.
And ran toward the light.
Toward Kael.
Toward what came next.