Eryndar landed before him like a fallen monolith, boots splitting the earth with the impact. His cloak hung in tatters, revealing gashes that wept crimson down his side. Yet his eyes remained calm—an ocean beneath storm winds—even as his jawline hardened into something primordial.
"Towan." His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet.
"She... she just left," Towan choked out, his own breath coming in jagged spikes.
Eryndar nodded once. The movement sent fresh blood dripping down his ribs. "I know."
Behind them, the smoke parted like a stage curtain. Vaeren emerged—unscathed, unhurried. His hands rested loosely at his sides, but the air around him vibrated with contained violence.
Eryndar shifted—just enough to place himself between Towan and death incarnate. "Run. Now."
"But I—"
"You're not ready for this."
"Then neither are you—!"
Eryndar exhaled through his nose, a sound like a mountain settling. "I don't need to win." He rolled his shoulders, and the very ground seemed to hold its breath. "I just need to hold."
Vaeren took his first step forward—and the forest floor splintered radially from his footfall, cracks racing outward like spider silk.
"Go."
"Where—?"
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"Find my dojo." Eryndar's voice dropped to something ancient and knowing.
Towan's fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood from his palms. Every fiber of his being howled at him to stand his ground, to fight, to not abandon another warrior to die alone. The ghost of Leon's smile flickered behind his eyes.
But his feet moved anyway.
He turned back once—just once—and saw them: Two forces of nature squared off in a clearing that would never grow anything again. Eryndar's earth-brown Essentia rose like a tidal wave, meeting Vaeren's emerald-edged void in a collision that made the air scream.
Then he ran.
The explosion that followed wasn't sound so much as pure pressure—the birth-cry of a crater. Wind shredded through the trees behind him, carrying with it the truth Seriah had unearthed:
(That wasn't yours.)
And beneath it, a darker whisper:
(But it could be.)
Towan ran.
Through ash and echo, through the shadows of a fight too vast for him to stand in.
His feet tore across the soil, breath coming in ragged gulps, vision blurring from more than just exhaustion.
He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
(He told me to run. He needed me to run.)
“Why?!”
The scream ripped out of his throat, raw and cracking.
“Why again? Why does it always end like this?!”
His ring pulsed once—no warning, just... grief. As if even the Essentia within him was mourning.
He pushed harder, legs burning, mind spiraling. His heart beat so loud it drowned out the forest.
What did I do wrong? Why am I the one always left behind?
He didn’t stop. Not when roots clawed at his boots. Not when branches tore at his sleeves.
Only when his body failed him.
His knees gave out. He stumbled, caught himself on trembling arms, and—
CRACK.
Fist met bark. Essentia surged, wild and unshaped.
A blast of raw force punched a hole straight through the tree’s trunk, splinters exploding outward like a silent scream.
Towan stood there, panting. Fist bloody. Eyes glassy.
The ring hummed—a low, uneasy tone. Like it wasn’t sure if it had done something wrong too.
He looked up.
Through the canopy—lights.
Not stars.
Lanterns. Buildings.
A city.
Faintly golden. Faintly familiar.
“…Wait…”
His breath caught in his throat.
He staggered forward, almost tripping over a root. The trees thinned.
And there it was.
“…This place…” he breathed.
“Lockeheart.”