The boy's smile faded.
Not abruptly.
It **collapsed**—like something carefully held together finally giving way.
His shoulders sank a fraction. His red eyes dimmed, glassing over as something raw surfaced beneath the calm. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
Sharper.
Older.
"You know," he said slowly, "this isn't the first time we've lost a mother."
Draven's breath stuttered.
The darkness **tightened**.
The boy straightened, and as he did, his form **shifted**—subtle, yet unmistakable. His posture became smaller. Younger. The white suit blurred, reshaping into something simpler, looser.
A child.
A boy who looked no older than six.
*Daniel.*
He stepped closer, and for the first time, his voice **trembled**.
"The first one…" he continued, eyes lowering, "…she didn't even look back."
His fists clenched at his sides.
"She left us standing there. Didn't hesitate. Didn't cry. Didn't care."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Didn't even need a sword to do it."
He lifted his head.
"But this one?"
His gaze dropped to Elliana's body.
"The one who stayed."
"The one who fought."
"The one who loved us like it mattered."
His voice cracked.
"The one who gave a shit."
Tears welled in his eyes—and then spilled, hot and furious, streaking down his cheeks just like Draven's.
"And *you*," the boy whispered, shaking now, "you just stood there."
The darkness pulsed.
"You watched."
He took another step forward, close enough now that Draven could see it—the same pain, the same helplessness, the same **guilt**, mirrored perfectly in those red eyes.
"She didn't abandon us," the boy said, voice breaking.
"She chose us."
His teeth clenched, jaw trembling.
"And this time," he whispered, almost pleading, "this time **you're the reason she's dead**."
The words didn't strike like thunder.
They sank in like poison.
The boy's shoulders hitched as he cried openly now, fists balled tight against his chest.
"We finally had one," he said hoarsely. "One who stayed. One who loved us."
He looked at Draven—really looked at him.
"And you couldn't save her."
The darkness swallowed the space between them.
Two versions of the same broken child stood facing each other—one clutching a corpse, the other clutching a memory.
The boy's voice hardened.
The tears didn't stop—but they **changed**.
They weren't grief anymore.
They were accusation.
"You stood there and watched," he said again, slower now, every word pressed into place like a nail.
"Because you're **weak**."
The darkness pulsed in time with his words.
"You can't protect shit," the boy continued, red eyes burning as he stared straight into Draven.
"Not her. Not yourself. Not anyone."
He took another step forward, close enough that their breaths would have touched if breath still mattered here.
"You're a burden," he said flatly. "A weight."
Draven's fingers twitched around Elliana's body.
The boy pointed at her.
"If she didn't have to protect **you**—" his voice cracked again, rage bleeding through, "—she'd still be alive."
The words sank deep.
"If you'd just listened," he went on, sharper now. "When she told you to move. To run. To stay back."
His jaw clenched.
"But you didn't."
The darkness **tightened** around them, like a fist closing.
"Even when you *knew*," the boy said, voice trembling with fury and hurt, "even when you knew how badly hurt she already was—"
His hand curled into a fist over his chest.
"You still didn't listen."
Silence fell—thick, suffocating.
Then, quieter. Deadlier.
"You know what that makes you?"
The boy's tears dripped into the void, vanishing before they hit anything.
"Weak," he repeated.
"And your weakness—"
He gestured once more to Elliana's lifeless form.
"—is what killed her."
The words hung there.
Not screamed.
Not shouted.
**Delivered.**
The darkness waited.
Draven's chest felt hollow, like something vital had been carved out and left bleeding. His breath shook. His jaw trembled. His vision blurred again—not just with tears, but with something darker.
Guilt.
Hatred.
Self-loathing.
And beneath it all—
A terrible, quiet truth beginning to take shape.
The boy didn't move.
He just watched.
The boy's form **shifted**.
The white suit stretched, seams dissolving into shadow and reforming into darker cloth. His frame lengthened, bones settling, shoulders broadening. The softness of childhood burned away, replaced by something harder—sharper.
When he straightened, the figure standing before Draven was **older**.
Mid-teens.
Taller. Lean. Eyes still red, but no longer wet—now they burned heavier, burdened with things no child should carry. His face was unmistakably **Daniel**, but stripped of innocence. This was a version forged by memory, regret, and survival.
The white suit remained.
But now it fit like a judge's robes.
His voice was deeper when he spoke. Steadier.
"And she's not the only one who's going to pay for your weakness."
The words landed like a sentence being read aloud.
He turned slightly, pacing once through the void, hands clasped behind his back like a judge considering evidence.
"The old man," he said calmly.
"Elenya."
"Lucifer."
Each name echoed faintly in the darkness, as if the void itself recognized them.
"They'll face the same fate."
"One by one," he continued, stopping and looking back at Draven.
"Not because the world is cruel. Not because the enemy is strong."
He pointed—directly at Draven's chest.
"But because **you are weak**."
Draven's breath hitched.
"Because you trapped yourself inside a lie," Daniel said.
"An illusion."
He spread his arms slightly, indicating the darkness, the silence, the emptiness.
"You called it *peace*," he said with quiet contempt.
"You called it—" He spread his arms again.
"Hiding. Enduring. Pretending that keeping your head down is the same as living."
"That if you stayed small, stayed quiet, stayed out of the way—no one else would get hurt."
He spread his arms slightly once more, indicating the nothingness around them.
"This is what peace looks like," he said.
"Stillness. Silence. Watching the people you love die one by one while you tell yourself you had no choice."
He stepped closer, face inches from Draven's.
"You think staying human makes you good," Daniel went on.
"You think restraint gives you peace."
His lips curled—not a smile, but something colder.
"All peace ever did," he whispered, "was make you slow."
The darkness around them **tightened**, pressing inward like a coffin.
"You stopped sharpening your teeth," Daniel continued.
"You stopped reaching for power. You stopped preparing."
His voice lowered to a hiss.
"And now the people you love are standing on a chopping block."
Draven's shoulders shook.
Daniel straightened.
"So go ahead," he said.
"Stay here. Cry. Hold her."
A pause.
"But don't lie to yourself."
His red eyes flared brighter.
"This doesn't end with her."
Silence swallowed the void again.
Daniel's presence **expanded**.
The teenage form didn't stop changing.
It aged again—sharper, taller, broader.
The last traces of youth burned away, replaced by something fully grown.
A man now. Hardened. Scarred in ways that didn't show on skin.
His white suit darkened at the edges, no longer pristine, but **earned**—like the uniform of someone who had survived by refusing to bend.
His eyes were still red.
But now they were **ancient**.
"The peace you yearn for," he said quietly, "is just a shield."
He scoffed softly.
"A lie the weak wrap themselves in because they're too afraid to do anything else."
The darkness **responded** to him—not violently, but obediently.
"You of all people should know that," Daniel continued.
"The weak don't get a say. They never have."
He gestured downward, as if indicating a pit beneath the world.
"Those at the bottom just take whatever shit gets tossed on them and learn to smile through it."
Draven's breathing was shallow now. His hands trembled.
Daniel stepped closer.
"It might be a different world," he said, voice firm, absolute, "but the rules are the same."
He met Draven's gaze dead-on.
"If you really want peace," Daniel said, "then there's only one way to get it."
The darkness **leaned in**.
"Stand at the top."
His voice hardened.
"Above everyone."
He began counting—not with fingers, but with intent.
"Elves."
"Demons."
"Gods."
"It doesn't matter."
His lips curled—not in cruelty, but in certainty.
"Step on their heads as you climb."
A pause.
"Just like before."
That last line **echoed**.
Draven's chest tightened painfully. Memories—half-buried, half-denied—shifted beneath the surface. Old instincts. Old methods. Old sins.
Daniel straightened fully now, towering—not physically, but **existentially**.
"You don't need forgiveness," he said.
"You don't need mercy."
He looked down at Elliana's body one last time.
"You need power."
Silence fell.
Not empty.
**Expectant.**
Daniel extended his hand.
"Stand up," he said.
Not a request.
A command.
"And I'll show you how to make sure no one ever takes anything from you again."
The darkness waited.
So did the world.
And Draven stood at the edge of a choice that would decide whether he remained a broken son—