The streets have turned against me. Fog coils like fingers around my legs, shadows writhe at the edges of vision, and buildings lean violently, windows glaring down. The city pulses beneath my boots, alive, aware, reacting to every hesitation, every fear.
Voices overlap in the mist, whispering, accusing: "The heir… the choice… the cost…" Faces flicker in and out of the fog—friends, strangers, memories I do not recognize—all judging me. Every misstep shapes the city, twisting it into a reflection of my own doubt and guilt.
I force myself forward. Pavement pulses beneath my hands, alive. The fog thickens, twisting into forms that brush at my skin, teasing, testing. Shapes detach from walls: half-memory, half-shadow, moving with deliberate awareness.
A sudden shatter—a window above explodes, shards clattering at my feet. The city is no longer merely observing. It is shaping itself aggressively, responding to my every thought. My pulse spikes.
I kneel, pressing my hands to the stone of the plaza. Symbols hum faintly beneath my fingers, alive, resonating with the whispers: "The heir… the choice… the cost…" The city remembers everything. Every fear, every hesitation, every choice.
And I realize: I cannot leave unchanged.
I stand, trembling but resolute. I am the heir. Step by step, shadow by shadow, I bend the city, influence its streets, and shape the fog. The whispers intensify, but I am no longer merely reacting. I am acting.
The city is unleashed. And I walk its heart, claiming it as mine.