The world had no edges here.
No sky.
No ground.
Only reflections—like shards of broken mirrors floating in an endless void.
Each fragment spun, twisted, glimmered with memories both real and never-realized.
Ael stepped forward.
His foot touched nothing, yet he stood.
All around him were doors—made of light, shadow, flame, and glass. They whispered to him as he passed.
Not in curses.
But in longing.
"This is the life you lost.""This is the peace you never knew.""This is who you could have been."
Ael did not falter.
Not until he reached the first door.
It opened before he touched it.
And drew him in.
—
He stood in a sunlit courtyard.
Children laughed in the distance.
A woman's voice called out from a garden: "You're late, my King. Again."
She appeared—Aeryn.
Alive.
Smiling.
Wearing a crown of white flowers, her eyes glowing with affection—not awe, not fear.
She walked to him, took his hand.
"You promised today would be just us."
He looked down. His armor was gone.
He wore a tunic.
Soft leather.
His hands bore no blood.
And in that moment, it was so easy to believe.
—
Another door opened.
A new fragment swallowed him.
He stood before a great council—mages, kings, scholars. They bowed.
Not out of obedience.
But respect.
He had united the continent without war. Through words. Through clarity. Through perfect logic.
A world without suffering.
Without need for emotion.
He stood as the perfect king.
Loved not for who he was…
…but for what he had solved.
—
More doors.
Each one a possibility.
A life with Lyra, where magic became a song of healing instead of a weapon.
A lifetime as a wandering teacher, shaping children with truth and kindness.
Even a quiet end—an old man beneath a tree, carving names into bark, hand held by someone he never met in this life.
And the voices whispered:
"You don't have to fight anymore.""Haven't you done enough?""This world was never worth the pain.""Just stay."
—
In the deepest mirror, he saw himself.
Crownless.
Bloodless.
Content.
No war. No Hollow King. No loss.
Just peace.
And for the first time since he had been reborn…
Ael hesitated.
"…Would it be so wrong?" he whispered.
Behind him, a familiar voice answered.
"No."
He turned.
Lyra stood there—not real. A figment conjured by the Hollow King. A perfect reflection.
"But it wouldn't be right, either," she said.
He closed his eyes.
And remembered:
The fire.
The pain.
Elric's rough laugh. Vel's impossible grin. The trembling hands of the boy in Veridell who had remembered his name.
And her—
The real Lyra. Who cried for him. Fought beside him. Chose him.
Not because he was perfect.
But because he tried.
Ael opened his eyes.
And said the words that shattered the mirror-world.
"Perfection without feeling… is just death in prettier clothes."
—
The reflections cracked.
Light poured in.
The Hollow King's voice roared across the unraveling void.
"You would throw away paradise? For suffering?""You would choose pain over peace?"
Ael stepped through the shards as they burned around him.
"I would choose truth."
His sword ignited.
The shards became wings.
And Ael, bearer of all seven emotions, descended.
Not to surrender.
But to finish it.
—
Far ahead, atop a throne of bleeding light, the Hollow King stood.
For the first time, he looked… uncertain.
Because Ael had not broken.
He had chosen.
And now, the final battle would not be between despair and hope.
But between a man who once felt nothing…
And the soul he'd built from everything he never understood.