Edran sat cross-legged on the mossy ground, back straight but not tense, hands resting gently on his knees. The forest around him pulsed with life—the rustling of leaves, the distant chitter of unseen creatures, the gentle murmur of the nearby stream—but all of it sounded muffled, like he was underwater, submerged beneath the weight of his own restless thoughts.
He tried to breathe, to sink inward, but his mind was a wildfire.
Every attempt at focus was met with a new distraction: the shame of the snake, the jagged claw marks in the tree, the weight of a body that wasn't truly his. Memories buzzed at the edge of his consciousness like swarming insects. And no matter how he tried to still himself, the noise kept pushing forward.
"This isn't working," he muttered, jaw tight.
He had thought meditation would bring clarity. Instead, it magnified his inner chaos. Each breath was met with doubt. Each exhale reminded him how little control he had—not over his body, not over Ravian's skills, and certainly not over the storm in his head.
Images flared without warning: Ravian's calm hands holding a blade, the ghost of a woman's laugh, the heat of battle, the blur of grief. None of them belonged to him. Yet all of them lived inside him.
"I don't know who I am," he admitted aloud, the words landing like stones. "Not anymore."
The System's voice stirred, calm and impassive. "Then begin by listening, not deciding."
Edran blinked. "What?"
"The mind is not a wall to be broken. It is a current. Let it flow. Watch the thoughts pass, and they will show you what remains beneath."
He frowned. "Just... let it happen?"
"Let it *reveal*. Do not chase. Do not fight. Observe."
He sighed, closed his eyes again. This time, he did not try to empty his mind. He let the thoughts come. Let the questions arrive without judgment. Let the memories flicker without trying to hold them.
The forest dimmed around him, sounds folding inward, thoughts pulling back like the tide.
And then—slowly, like mist rolling in—memories came.
A boy, standing alone before a towering council, fists clenched, jaw set. A child trying not to cry while being dissected by voices sharp as glass. *Unworthy*, they whispered. *A waste.*
The boy ran laps until he collapsed. Was struck with staffs until he could rise no more. But he got up. Every time.
*Get up.*
He bled in silence. He swallowed humiliation. He didn't cry.
Then came the training—the blade in his hand, too large at first. A man barking instructions. Ravian stumbling. Ravian rising. Over and over. Until one day, the blade did not own him. He owned it.
Edran's breath hitched.
The memory shifted. Desert winds. Sand whipping his face. Ravian, older now. He moved like liquid steel, dispatching bandits with calm precision. But it wasn't the violence that struck Edran—it was the silence. How lonely he looked. How empty.
And then the memory bent again.
A smile.
That same hardened face, now softened, watching a woman swing on a low tree branch. Her hair wild, her laugh unguarded. The joy in Ravian's face was foreign. Like he was someone else in that moment. Someone... lighter.
Edran's chest ached.
But then, a shadow fell across the sunlit scene. Screams. Smoke. The woman's laughter silenced by the edge of a blade.
And just like that, it was gone.
Edran gasped, his eyes snapping open, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his back. His hands trembled in his lap.
The forest returned around him, too quiet now. His breath shook.
"She mattered," he whispered. "Who was she?"
No answer came. Just silence, and the flicker of emotions that weren't entirely his.
"I need to know more," he said, voice unsteady. "Not just who Ravian was. I need to *understand* him."
The System returned, voice as composed as ever. "You fear what you may find."
"I do," Edran admitted. "But I can't stop. Not now."
"Then begin where all things do. Not with the warrior. With the boy."
Edran exhaled slowly. He wasn't ready for battles. He wasn't ready to confront the full scope of Ravian's life. But maybe he could start at the beginning. The quiet moments. The foundation. The hurt.
"I'll go slow," he said. "Memory by memory."
"That is enough," the System replied.
And this time, Edran believed it.
He shifted slightly on the moss, resettled his hands. His eyes closed again.
Not to silence the storm.
But to enter it—one heartbeat at a time.