Bryanard found himself standing in a tunnel of utter blackness. There was no sound, no sense of air or movement—only the weight of absolute silence pressing in from all sides. It felt like drowning in stillness, like the world had been smothered by a void.
Then—light.
A single spark flickered to life in the dark, suspended in midair. Just a tiny ember, barely larger than a marble, but its glow was pure and sharp, and it cast enough illumination to show what had been hidden.
The walls of the tunnel weren't stone. They were carved—intricately, lovingly—with scenes etched deep into their surfaces.
On the right wall, Bryanard saw the moment of his birth. His father held him aloft with pride, while his mother smiled weakly from her bed. The carving shimmered faintly under the ember's glow, its details impossibly fine—every fold of cloth, every tear of joy rendered in perfect clarity.
The left wall was blank.
Bryanard reached out and touched the carving with cautious fingers. "What is this…?" he muttered.
He knew what Soul Chambers were—he'd studied them, heard stories—but they were rare and unpredictable, each shaped by the soul of the one who cast them. Whatever this was, it didn't match anything he'd read.
The ember drifted forward.
He followed. There was nothing else to do. Behind him, the void loomed complete and impenetrable—the little ember's light didn't even touch it.
As he walked, more carvings appeared on the right wall, each one chronicling a moment from his life. His first words. His first steps. Long afternoons learning to read with his mother. Sparring with his father in the yard. The awe he felt the day he saw the knight who'd inspired him. Entering the academy, swearing his oath—each step of his life laid out in stone.
And all the while, the ember burned just a little brighter. Slowly. Painfully slowly.
Then something changed.
For the first time, a carving appeared on the left wall.
It wasn't his.
It was another birth, one less pristine. The parents were far too young, their expressions strained. As Bryanard moved, the left wall revealed more scenes—not his training, but theirs. A small, rundown home. Parents scraping together coins to keep the roof above them. A boy watching them with quiet, worried eyes.
While Bryanard had trained with his instructors, this boy's parents had found joy in his first words, his first steps.
While Bryanard was knighted, this boy—Brenton—was showing his drawings to his parents, beaming with pride.
While Bryanard rode into battle, Brenton was being shoved by older boys, enduring it with a smile.
As Bryanard gained scars and victories, Brenton made friend his first friend. As Bryanard returned home to the grave of a father he'd outlived, Brenton spoke of dreams. Dreams of becoming a knight.
Both walls began to show the same moments: Bryanard and Brenton meeting. Training together. Laughing. Sparring.
He reached out again—this time to the left. The texture of Brenton's life under his hand felt no less real than his own.
He took a breath, deep and uneven.
The flame flared. Stronger now. Not flickering, but solid—its light pushing further, brighter, driving back the darkness.
And still the carvings continued.
The right wall showed the day Bryanard made Brenton his squire.
Then came Ameer's words: "Let him be young."
Then came the week of lighter lessons.Then the war.Then the split.
On the right wall, Bryanard rode with the other knights.On the left, Brenton's friend came to him, pleading.Brenton rallied. Brenton charged. Brenton saved lives.
Brenton died.
Not in agony. Not in fear. He died quickly, cleanly. And in his last seconds, he turned—not to his wounds, but to the people he'd saved.
And smiled.
Bryanard stopped walking. The flame hovered beside him now, casting light on both sides of the tunnel. His hand trembled.
"Why are you showing me this…?" he asked quietly.
The right wall answered.
His own story continued. The Warhammer. The blame. The hatred for himself. Meeting Calvinel.
Every moment since Brenton's death, laid out in painful, surgical clarity.
The flame flared once more—and there it was: a distant light at the end of the tunnel.
A silhouette stood inside that light, holding a torch—unlit.
The ember floated toward it.
The flame left Bryanard.
It moved to the silhouette.
The torch burst into life.
Light poured outward, flooding the tunnel. The silhouette stepped forward, and the torch's glow revealed his face.
Calvinel.
Still bloodied. Still battered. Still smiling.
"You reached the end of the tunnel," he said, his voice steady despite the wounds.
Bryanard's grip on his warhammer tightened. "Why? What was all this for?"
Calvinel sighed softly, his smile unwavering. "For you to see. To remind you. To show you what you missed."
He turned, tapped the left wall.
One last carving appeared.
Brenton's parents, standing by his grave. Their faces were streaked with tears—grief written in every line—but on their lips was a fragile, unmistakable smile.
"You never visited them," Calvinel said softly. "Not once after he died."
Bryanard stared. The silence swallowed him for a heartbeat.
"How could I?" he muttered. "I got their son killed…"
Calvinel shook his head. "Look at them. They're proud. Sad, yes. Devastated. But still smiling. Do you know why?"
Bryanard didn't answer.
"Because he died saving others. He did good. Even in death, he gave others life. That's why they smile. But you… you didn't see them. You didn't let yourself see that. You buried yourself in guilt. In duty. You became the perfect knight, trying to make it mean something. But it already did."
He stepped forward, placed a hand on Bryanard's shoulder.
"Stop chasing a perfection that won't bring him back. Stop drowning in a past you can't change. Be here. In the present. And move forward."
He turned back toward the light, lifting his torch high.
"I'll light the way."
And he walked.
Bryanard stood frozen for a moment. Then—he looked back. One last time.
At the darkness. At the memories. At Brenton.
Then forward.
At Calvinel, limping with every step, but moving anyway.
And he followed.
The Torchbearer led the Warrior out of the tunnel.
And just like that—they were back.
The arena surrounded them again. No time had passed. No step had been taken.
But everything had changed.
Calvinel stood where he had before, bloodied and swaying, but smiling just the same.
Bryanard raised his warhammer.
"I yield."
They barely registered the crowd, or Quincy's booming voice declaring Calvinel the victor.
They only looked at each other.
"Thank goddess," Calvinel muttered with a breathless laugh, swaying. "You actually listened. I'm gonna pass out now."
Then he dropped backward—unconscious.
Bryanard let out a slow breath, shaking his head. The memories remained. The scars lingered. But now—now they didn't hold him down.
He could stand. He could move.
And with the faintest, nearly imperceptible smile, he muttered,
"What a persistent brat."