Sei closed his eyes.

  Not in fear. Not in desperation.

  He drew a slow breath in through his nose and let it out just as carefully, the way he had learned to do long before magic—before Toradol, before summoning, before the world had decided he was something other than human.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Liora said quietly.

  Maerwyn did not speak.

  Sei nodded once and let go.

  At first, nothing happened.

  Then the pressure returned—not sudden, not violent. It unfolded inside him like a held breath finally remembered. His pulse slowed instead of quickened. The tension behind his eye sharpened, then settled into a steady ache.

  Liora stiffened.

  “His eyes—”

  Color bled into the whites, faint at first, then unmistakable. Veins along his forearm darkened beneath the skin, tracing paths that didn’t quite follow anatomy. The air around him felt dense, as if the room itself had leaned closer.

  “Sei?” Liora called.

  No response.

  His chest continued to rise and fall, even and measured. Too measured.

  Maerwyn stepped forward a single pace.

  “He’s not unconscious,” she said softly. “He’s gone elsewhere.”

  There was no elsewhere.

  Only darkness.

  Sei did not remember falling. There was no sense of movement, no jolt, no disorientation. One moment he was standing, breathing, allowing—and the next, he was simply… present.

  No body. No ground beneath his feet.

  Then came the sound.

  Drip.

  He turned.

  Nothing.

  Drip.

  The sound echoed faintly, rhythmic and patient. Water falling somewhere far away. He took a step toward it.

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  Then another.

  Time lost meaning. The darkness didn’t change. He walked because stopping felt worse.

  The sound grew louder.

  And then—

  Metal.

  Shouting.

  A clash so sudden it made him flinch.

  Light burst into existence.

  Sei staggered forward and found himself standing in the middle of chaos.

  A battlefield.

  Banners snapped in smoke-filled air—colors he recognized and colors he didn’t. Steel rang against steel. Shouts rose in languages he half-understood. People fell around him, trampled or cut down before they could scream.

  Toradol.

  And the Imperium of Vael.

  “Hey—!” Sei dropped to his knees beside a soldier clutching his side, blood slick and dark between his fingers. “Stay with me, I—”

  His hand passed straight through the man’s chest.

  No resistance.

  No warmth.

  The soldier screamed anyway and died anyway, eyes staring through Sei as if he weren’t there at all.

  “No,” Sei whispered. He reached for another. And another.

  Nothing.

  He wasn’t a healer here.

  He wasn’t anything.

  A voice cut through the din—sharp, commanding.

  Familiar.

  Sei turned.

  Across the field stood a figure clad in blackened armor, its surface warped as if grown rather than forged. Purple light threaded through the seams, pulsing faintly. The helm came off.

  Sei stared at his own face.

  Older. Harder. Eyes glowing with a color that did not blink.

  The figure raised a blade—green light catching along its edge—and the battlefield moved.

  Not rallied.

  Obeyed.

  Sei stumbled back, horror rooting him in place as the other him advanced, cutting through resistance with terrifying efficiency. There was no rage in his expression. No cruelty.

  Only certainty.

  The world fractured.

  Stone replaced mud. Smoke became sunlight.

  Toradol stood before him—whole, towering, magnificent. Its walls gleamed. Its streets were filled with people who looked upward in awe.

  Behind Sei rose a statue.

  Himself.

  Sword raised. Enemy broken beneath his feet.

  A plaque at the base caught the light.

  In honor of Sei Noshimura—

  The rest blurred.

  Sei felt no pride.

  Only distance.

  The light shattered again.

  This battlefield was quieter.

  Bodies lay where they had fallen. Toradol’s banners were torn, trampled into ash. The King lay motionless near the gates. Councilors knelt or bled or stared into nothing.

  Maerwyn stepped forward alone.

  She raised her staff—

  —and fell.

  “No!” Sei shouted.

  Eva surged into view from the smoke, blade flashing, striking from behind—

  Two figures intercepted her.

  Unfamiliar. Elegant. Movements precise and merciless.

  Eva fell.

  The sky split with thunder.

  Dust roared outward as something landed.

  Then again.

  Two figures stood where the smoke cleared.

  One broad. One lean.

  The lean one laughed.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  The other replied easily, “You had a head start.”

  They faced forward together.

  And beyond them—

  The older Sei stood again.

  Different now.

  Unified.

  One side of him glowed with calm, golden radiance, a shield of light hovering at his arm. The other burned with familiar green, the blade alive and steady in his grasp.

  Balanced.

  Terrifying.

  The world began to unravel.

  Voices cut through the noise, distant but urgent.

  “Sei!”

  “Sei, wake up!”

  Liora.

  Maerwyn.

  He closed his eyes.

  And chose.

  Sei gasped and lurched forward, hands braced against stone as the pressure collapsed inward, vanishing all at once. The discoloration faded. The room rushed back into focus.

  Liora staggered back a step, breath unsteady.

  Maerwyn remained still.

  Sei lifted his head slowly.

  “We can’t do this halfway,” he said hoarsely.

  Maerwyn met his gaze.

  “Then,” she replied, “we must decide what we are willing to become.”

  The Archive fell silent around them.

  And somewhere deep within Sei, something listened.