Lucius' pov:
Snow crunched beneath his boots.
One step.
Another.
Another.
He did not know how long he had been walking. He did not know where he had started. He only knew he was moving away. From the Citadel. From Him. From himself.
The wind carried needles of ice that cut across his face, but he did not raise his hood. He did not quicken his pace. He did not look for shelter.
If the cold takes me — let it.
If the snow buries me — let it.
If I survive — that is the punishment.
He inhaled. The air burned in his lungs.
"I am—"
The word died in his throat.
Lucius.
No.
Airon.
No.
His lips trembled, but no name came out. He had no right to one.
Lucius was a weapon.
Airon was a child.
Both were dead.
Only something that remembers remained.
His steps grew heavier. Exhaustion clung to his bones, but he refused to stop. If he stopped, the memories would overtake him.
They were already there.
His mother's voice.
Warm. Gentle.
"Airon, don't run on the ice."
His father's hands on his shoulders.
"One day, you will be strong."
He staggered.
Strong.
Strong enough to kill.
Strong enough to break.
Strong enough to destroy what he once loved.
His hands shook. He looked down at them.
Clean.
But in memory — soaked in blood.
Not only the blood of enemies.
The blood of the innocent.
The blood of those who trusted.
The blood of those who begged.
The snow began to fall harder.
Good.
Let it cover the tracks.
Let it cover him.
---
Hours later, through the white haze of the storm, lights appeared.
A village.
Small. Wooden houses with smoke rising from chimneys. The faint scent of firewood and fresh bread drifted through the freezing air.
He stopped at the edge.
He did not belong in this image.
People moved between houses. Children played in the snow, throwing clumsy snowballs, laughing without weight.
Laughter.
It sounded foreign.
A boy ran toward him, cheeks red from the cold, holding a piece of bread.
"Mister! You look hungry."
Lucius stood rigid.
The child held out the bread. Warm. Fresh.
His eyes dropped to the small fingers holding it. To the smile untouched by hatred. To the eyes that had never seen blood.
And something inside him cracked.
He saw himself.
Not Lucius.
Not what he had become.
But Airon.
A child running through summer fields. Falling and laughing. Having parents who spoke his name with love.
"Airon…"
The name echoed like an accusation.
He killed that child.
He killed that boy.
His hand moved slowly. He took the bread.
The warmth burned his skin.
"Thank you," he whispered.
His voice sounded distant. Ruined.
The boy smiled and ran back.
Lucius remained standing.
He stared at the bread.
He did not take a bite.
Instead, he walked to a nearby house and left it on the windowsill, where an old woman later picked it up.
He did not deserve to eat.
Hunger was gentle compared to what he carried.
---
He walked through the village in silence.
He saw a man repairing a fence. A woman hugging her daughter. An old man telling a story by the fire.
Simple joy.
Quiet joy.
He had that once.
It had been given to him.
And he had turned it into ash.
He stopped at a frozen river beyond the village.
The ice was smooth, wind-cleared in one place, dark like a mirror.
He looked down.
The face staring back was sharp, hollow, cold.
But for a moment — only a moment — another face overlapped it. Younger. Softer. Eyes without shadow.
Airon.
Silence swallowed everything.
He did not speak.
He could not.
He had no right to address that boy.
The reflection trembled as wind brushed across the ice.
It disappeared.
Only he remained.
"You are not him," he thought.
"You are not Lucius either."
"You are only what you have done."
His hand moved to his chest, as if he could tear something out.
But guilt has no shape.
It only burns.
---
That night, he did not seek shelter.
He sat beneath a tree outside the village while snow gathered on his shoulders.
He did not eat.
He did not drink.
He did not light a fire.
If he survived the night, it would only mean the punishment was not finished.
His thoughts circled back to one name.
Akero.
He did not imagine forgiveness.
He did not imagine understanding.
He imagined judgment.
If there was one person in Elydris who had the right to kill him — it was him.
Not for revenge.
For balance.
He had broken him.
Turned him into a weapon of hatred.
And somewhere out there, Akero walked with a wound Lucius had carved into his soul.
That was not justice.
It was imbalance.
"I will find you," he murmured into the wind.
Not as a brother.
Not as a friend.
As a man seeking his sentence.
---
The next day, he left the village.
No one stopped him.
No one recognized him.
That was the cruelest part.
The world did not know what he had done.
The world still breathed.
The world still laughed.
And he walked through it like a shadow.
Days later, he passed another settlement. He asked about a man.
"Someone with eyes colder than winter," he said.
They shook their heads.
"We don't know."
Too late, he thought.
You are always too late.
When you should have spoken — you were silent.
When you should have stopped — you obeyed.
When you should have protected — you destroyed.
Now, when you search — you cannot find.
That is the punishment.
Not death.
Not starvation.
Not the cold.
But a search without success.
---
His body weakened.
His vision blurred at times.
Still, he walked.
If he collapsed — so be it.
If someone attacked him — so be it.
If Akero found him — best of all.
He stopped on a hill overlooking the winter plains of Elydris.
This world.
He did not deserve to walk upon it.
"You are not worthy," he whispered to himself.
The name Airon no longer burned.
It felt empty.
A name without a right.
Lucius was a monster.
Airon was a memory.
Only pain remained.
And it was stronger than everything.
Stronger than the cold.
Stronger than hunger.
Stronger than death.
He lowered his gaze and continued walking.
Not toward redemption.
Not toward forgiveness.
But toward the one who should end him.
And as the snow began to fall again, erasing his footprints behind him, Lucius — or whatever remained of him — understood one final truth:
If Akero finds me before death does,
it will not be punishment.
It will be mercy.
And he was no longer certain he deserved even that.