They pressed deeper into the forest.
By day, the twin flames battled one another. The golden light illuminated the glass trees in a soft glow, revealing hidden carvings etched into their trunks: spirals, sigils, and broken circles. But the black flame stained the same carvings with shadows, twisting the symbols until they seemed like warnings.
Aya carried both lights at once, her arm trembling. "I can't tell which one is true," she admitted.
"Neither is true," Ahri said quietly. "Both are partial. The lantern doesn't show what is—it shows what's at stake."
Jin remained silent. His eyes, however, flicked constantly between the flames, measuring their pull. Ahri noticed that he stepped closer to the black-lit path than the gold. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice.
When they stopped to rest, Ahri asked Aya to hand her the lantern. She held it between her palms, feeling its split pulse. Each flame hummed with a different rhythm: one like a heartbeat, steady and warm; the other like a whisper, restless and endless.
"What happens if one goes out?" she wondered aloud.
Aya paled. "Don't say that."
But Jin finally spoke. "One will go out. That's the nature of division. It's not a question of if—but when."
Ahri stared into the twin flames until her vision blurred. In their dance, she saw not only futures but also herself divided: one Ahri pulled toward resistance, one toward surrender. Both carried her face and her voice. Neither looked at peace.