"—finally."
Cecilion turns his head toward the voice. The motion feels wrong—as if his neck were rusted hinges forced into motion after centuries. His vision wavers.
A face hovers above him.
Not Zixuan.
Not Casper.
Not a dream.
A stranger. Or perhaps not. The features are twisted by time, scarred by exposure to raw Fold-energy. Hair like soot, skin lined with channels of light that pulse in time with runes along the walls. Eyes—a burnt gold—hold too many memories.
"You brought him back?" the figure asks over his shoulder.
Zixuan steps into view, her coat torn, ash staining her collar, but her eyes unchanged: fire and starlight.
"I dragged him through," she says.
The man—no, not quite man anymore—tilts his head. "Then we're already losing. You should've let the Fold keep him."
"He remembered," she replies coldly. "That's more than I can say for most."
The not-man hums, unimpressed. "Memory isn't absolution."
"No," Zixuan agrees. "But it's a start."
