Behind her, the faces of comrades—Garen, Elise, Captain Roth—pale and slack with the moment of death.
A choir of failures arrayed like broken statues.
Farther back, Vaelarien, bound to an invisible rack, thorns sinking into elven skin, lips shaping the word why.
The images shifted with the demon's breathing, sliding across its surface like nightmares across a sleepless mind.
With every pulse it swung a blade, and the illusions wove themselves into the arc, forcing Draven to strike at grief wearing borrowed skin.
He felt a familiar cold press at the base of his skull.
Shame.
It tried to bend his spine, push knees toward soil.
Tried, but shame was an old enemy and he had named its weaknesses years ago.
Inhale.
Data: distance four paces; illusion density high; real threat vector right-hand blade.
Exhale.
Discard: sister's eyes, comrades' blame.
His sword traced a diagonal guard, point down, deflecting the first attack.
Steel kissed steel.
