The dark Serian-construct moved with a chilling, perfect mimicry of the real Serian's grace. It was a dancer's poise, but with the cold, precise intent of a killer. The twelve root-guardians fanned out behind it, a silent, formidable wall.
"So," Nox said, his voice a low murmur. "What's the plan? You fight your evil twin while I handle her backup dancers?"
"No," Serian replied, her eyes never leaving the construct. "This isn't a battle of strength. It's a battle of identity. It's trying to prove that its story—the story of silence and endings—is stronger than ours."
The dark Serian raised its root-woven sword. It did not speak with a voice. Its thoughts, cold and sharp, echoed in their minds.
*[You are the intruders. The noise. The chaos. This world was silent. It was at peace. You have brought the disease of change.]*
"We brought the gift of life," Serian countered, her own thought a clear, warm light. "Peace is not the same as silence."
