Azalea's question, sharp and direct, hung in the air.
Was she always this inquisitive?
Most high-class magicians, let alone peasants, wouldn't dare ask such a thing. Even an Arcanist Mage would hesitate.
Azalea's gaze, newly vital, was unsettling, digging at wounds I thought had long since sealed.
Archon, huh... should I tell her?
The truth was a barbed hook, ready to tear, but I barely hesitated.
Considering the lurking danger, and the fact that Azalea's reconstructed consciousness wouldn't be truly whole—wouldn't be like this if it were Kairi, as she was meant to be—without a complete understanding, she had to know.
If I could only convince her to get out of here, safe from that wicked bastard and the others, it would all be worth it.
The truth, however, wasn't kind. It was cruel, ruthless. Unforgiving.
No, that wasn't quite right.
