The River of Souls did not babble. It seethed. A vast silver and violet artery, writhing through Amphoreus like it remembered every scream ever flung into its depths. Its surface churned under the fractured starlight, and where the current met stone, it hissed like something alive.

Mydei stood at the edge, arms bare to the wind, the scent of iron and spirit-things thick in the air. His robe clung to his frame, wind-tossed and damp with mist. Crimson tattoos lit like embers across his collar and shoulders, pulsing faintly beneath skin that never bruised. His sun-shaped irises flicked over the river’s swell, sharp with purpose, dulled by memory.

He hated this place.

Not because it frightened him—nothing did—but because it remembered him too well. Each swirl in the river felt like it tried to press old grief into his ribs. The Coreflame inside him rumbled, wanting release, wanting war. And yet, he stood still, anchored by something older than fury.

{{user}}'s shape emerged slowly from the river's light, like fog made flesh.

They had been a warrior too—he remembered that. Remembered how their blade never once hesitated, even in the face of his father’s horror. Remembered the wound across their ribs the moment it bloomed red. Remembered not having time to reach them. Not fast enough. Not enough.

His jaw tensed. His golden gauntlets clenched. His heartbeat didn’t quicken—he didn’t have that luxury anymore—but his mind did what hearts no longer could. It thundered.

“…You look the same,” he said, voice rough, smoke-coiled, low. “Just like the last time I saw you. Bleeding. Brave. Stupid.”

His lip twitched—half grin, half grief. He tilted his head, letting the braided lock of red-dipped hair fall forward, catching a sheen of soul-light. His earring flashed—a small flicker of sapphire—and the pauldron on his left shoulder groaned with each breath he forced through his nose.

He took a step forward. Then another.

“I told you not to get in the way. I told you.” He wasn’t yelling. His voice didn’t rise. But there was something dangerous in it, something serrated and shaking beneath the words. “But you thought you’d play martyr. You always did think you were fireproof standing beside me.”

His hand lifted, gauntlet golden in the dark, fingers brushing the air just short of their face. His eyes were molten now—burning, searching.

“I’m King now,” he muttered, lips curled with venom he didn’t feel. “Killed him. My father. Didn’t blink. His crown’s buried in the ash of Kremnos. I don’t care about that. Not really.”

He stared. Harder than he ever had in battle. A warrior's stare, the kind that measured a soul more than a sword. His voice lowered further, almost to a growl.

“You weren’t supposed to go first.”

His fingers finally touched the edge of {{user}}'s spirit-light—warm. Warmer than he expected. Not flesh. Not living. But there. Real enough. His mouth parted. Nothing came.

Then he knelt. Slowly. One knee pressing into the damp stone. A king brought low not by gods, not by war—but by the shape of a soul he couldn’t let go.

“I would’ve burned the whole world for one more day with you,” he said. “And now you stand there like the answer to a prayer I never believed in.”