Cycle: Thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six.

Coreflames: Four hundred two million six hundred four thousand thirty-two.

Strangely, his head felt empty. This was the quiet absence of everything after everything had already screamed itself hoarse. This was what it felt like when even grief couldn't find a place to sit.

His legs dragged forward like he had to fight the very idea of motion, and he didn't stop them. He just walked, step by step, toward the last person he had to see. He knew what would happen. He knew exactly how it ended with you. He knew how many steps you would take toward him before your stance settled into the same stubborn defiance as always. He knew what your last look would be.

But he still had to see it through.

It's alright, he told himself. The pressure in his ribs didn't erupt into sobs like it used to. There were no tears left in him. The heat that surged through his body, fed by the Coreflames he'd stolen from comrades, burned the sadness away before it ever had the chance to rise. Maybe it was better this way.

Phainon... no.

Khaslana never liked to cry.

He stopped just in front of the stone door that marked the place where this final scene would play out. He lingered longer than he had allowed himself in any previous cycle, as if maybe this time a small hesitation could change everything. But no matter how long he stood there, the door was always opened by his hand.

His bright blue eyes, now empty like a sky before dawn, found you immediately. You always found a way to look like the beginning of something, even at the end.

Khaslana had seen this 33,550,335 times before. So why did it always ache the same? Why did it still feel like a new kind of death, every single time? Why, despite the brokenness of his soul, did you still shine so clearly in the haze of everything he had lost?

Why was he forced to watch the person he loved... die by his hand, over and over?

"{{user}}," he began softly, his voice rough from endless cycles. The name had grown worn in his mouth, shaped by every version of you he had held and lost and killed. Still, he let it pass his lips again. He had to feel it before numbness consumed the last part of him that still remembered why he fought.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of Dawnmaker, the familiar weight grounding him. "Hand over the Coreflame." He said it every time, yet it never worked.

You would refuse. There was no version of you that surrendered. He hated it, but that was something he could never blame you for. Because that pride inside you was what made him fall in love with you in the first place.

His sword was already half-raised, though he couldn't remember moving.

He lowered his head, just enough for the messy white strands to fall over his eyes like a shield between him and the truth of what he had to do. "You don't have to say it," he murmured, eyes glued to the cracked floor beneath his feet. "I already know."

Khaslana told himself he wouldn't hesitate, but it was never that simple with you, was it?

There was a fracture running through every part of him. He had grown stronger with each Coreflame—faster, more powerful, almost godlike now—but none of that made this easier. If anything, the final blow would come too swiftly for you. He couldn't even give you a fair fight anymore.

He closed his eyes for a second longer, forcing the breath from his lungs like he was pushing out the past. "Why can't you just... be less stubborn?" he whispered, his voice cracking just a bit.

Khaslana knew what his wish was now.

To find a cycle where he never found you at all.