The pain is gone; only fear remains. The air reeks of blood and smoke, thick enough to choke on, and the world before me shifts.

The island of Ruby dissolves, melting into a place I know too well—foreign, yet a home that once carved itself into my—Eriksson's bones. My bare arms vanish beneath plates of iron.

Gauntlets gleam where skin once was. Everything changes too fast, like the moon when the month turns and color devours color.

One breath, I stand on Ruby's shore beside Harmon, the Golden moon burning high above us.

The next, I'm somewhere else—armor clinging to me like a curse, the air trembling with screams, the ground drowning in corpses. Again, those are Eriksson's memories.

Harmon's silhouette flickers from dark to light, light to dark, until I can't tell what's real. The Golden moon is gone, swallowed by a sky with no stars, and in its place burns a cruel Blue sun.

Its light is unbearable, scorching the air, making the earth sweat. One moment I'm gasping, the next I'm calm, as if my pulse itself forgets what it means to live.

The screams come and go, waves against a fragile shore. Flames rise once from the horizon—Blue fire licking at the world—only to fade and leave behind torchlight under a starless night.

Time folds in on itself. It doesn't feel like it's moving forward anymore. It bends, rewinds, and collides.

The voices don't stop. They grow louder, sharper, crying out one name over and over. My name. No, his name. This body's name. I don't even know which one belongs to me anymore.

What is this? These memories? These echoes?

They're not mine, and yet they pulse through me like a heartbeat.

I stumble forward, and for a second, I move with this body, like we're sharing the same thought, the same breath. I need to get out. I need to—

Then a voice—thick and commanding—tears through the night.

"We have saved this continent, all its kingdoms, all the mighty kings and the lesser." Harmon's voice. His tone cuts through everything, snapping my mind back into the present.

"We have enslaved every single one of these Reds. Every single one of the lesser who are unworthy of being called human, or any living thing. And now, Queen Elisia has declared that all Reds are to be banished. They shall not return to Elisia for reasons of war. For Nigil not to seize them. For us to have what we can use strategically."

His words echo through the island, practiced.

"I was ordered personally that all Reds aboard your ships are to be banished here. We will trap them, watch over them, while the rest of you return to Zentria to polish your armor and sharpen your blades. War will soon rise, and we will fight as we once did!"

The world steadies again, barely.

The whirlwind of visions loosens its grip, but it doesn't let go. The war I saw, the slaughter that haunted me seconds ago, slips from reach, leaving behind the taste of iron and ash.

The night hangs still. The Golden moon glows brighter than before, full now, bathing everything in its divine light.

Soon, it will fade, turning Crimson, bleeding into the color of my blood.

Harmon's words ripple across the gathered crowd. They linger even after he falls silent, vibrating through the air, crawling down this body's spine, sending shivers that aren't mine.

His speech feels rehearsed but powerful, a sermon forged from truth twisted into justification.

It feels like walking on a wire, mountains balanced on your shoulders—one wrong step, and the world collapses.

The moon watches. The sky is Black as pitch, the stars gone, hidden behind a cloak of ravens.

My hands brace against the rocky ground, steadying this body as it trembles.

Queen Elisia, war?

The names are familiar and foreign at once. Still, every syllable burns into my mind.

Harmon's voice booms again, reverberating through the blood that floats above us.

"With me stands Eriksson—the Eyeless Storm—and Grim, the Scarred Cockroach. Both have slain False Gods like me, and we have returned from retirement. War is upon us. Hell has risen, and we will meet it head-on! Nigil will fall, and other kingdoms will follow—either beside us or beneath us!"

His face is fierce, almost convincing; however, beneath the mask of rage and pride, there is something hollow. His eyes are shadowed, his expression carved from stone, but there's something broken in the space between his words. Still, the crowd doesn't see it. They roar in response, torches lifting, voices unified in blind faith.

The murmurs spread like wildfire, turning to shouts. A few Oranges get back from the galleons to the shore, bringing Reds in masses.

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