Orrny didn’t know how long he had been kneeling.

  The ground around the Urn no longer existed as before.It pulsed — alive, but dead — like the past itself.

  The ring in his hand stopped burning.Now, it only weighed.Like a promise made too te.

  The shadow in the temple still watched, unmoving.It had no face, but Orrny knew that gaze.It was the same one he saw the day everything died.

  — “He shouldn’t remember,” the shadow murmured, as if speaking to time itself.— “But he does,” replied the wind, or maybe the ?nima.

  Orrny stood.

  The air resisted his movement, as if the world rejected his choice.But he walked. One step at a time.The ring on his finger — like a mistake accepted.

  As he crossed the veil of memory, the temple changed.

  It was clean. Lit by a light that came from no sun.Runes glowed on the walls, whispering forgotten names.Stone pilrs sang mute hymns.

  At the center, where executions once happened,now stood a mirror.

  Cracked. Bck.As if forged from the shards of night itself.

  Orrny approached.

  In the reflection, he did not see himself.He saw the child he had been.And behind that child… Lyssara.

  Smiling. Crying.Saying nothing.

  The ?nima whispered:“This is the mirror where all deaths begin.”

  And then, for the first time,Orrny spoke:

  — “Am I... still me?”

  The mirror shuddered.

  And the answer came not in words —but in memories that bled.