The night was cold and silent, broken only by the distant echo of boots in the mud. Rain trickled through the half-crumbled roofs of Glob village, painting the destroyed remnants in streaks of black. The flashback opened in sepia tones — a memory steeped in blood and regret.
Duncan stood at attention, clad in the standard grey armor of the Western Village Corps. His helmet tucked beneath one arm, his violet eyes still human then — filled not with peace, but with simmering rage. Around him, dozens of soldiers stood in formation, most silent, a few cracking knuckles with anticipation.
A large man stepped forward. The commander. A brutish figure with an iron jaw and dead eyes. His voice was gravel wrapped in cruelty.
"You've been briefed. This settlement is to be erased. Suspected harboring of flower-bearers. No survivors."
Duncan blinked. He looked at the mud-streaked huts, the soft flickers of candlelight still glowing in some windows.
"Sir," he spoke, voice low. "There are families here. Children. I've done my share of raids, but this... this is slaughter."
The commander turned, eyes like chipped stone. "That wasn't a question, soldier. You don't speak. You execute. We cleanse the threat. We don't leave seeds behind."
One soldier laughed darkly. Another loaded his rifle.
Duncan stood frozen. His grip on the helmet tightened until his knuckles cracked.
"I refuse."
A hush fell.
The commander stepped forward, boots squelching in the mud, until they were nose to nose.
"You what?"
"I refuse to kill civilians," Duncan said, louder now. "This isn't defense. It's butchery."
The commander struck him across the jaw with his armored glove. Duncan staggered but didn't fall.
"Deserters die," the commander growled. "Run now, and you're branded. They'll hunt you. And if they catch you, they won't be merciful."
Duncan looked past the man toward the village. And in that moment...
A distant scream. A red flash.
One of the houses ignited in a swirl of crimson energy.
Duncan saw her — a woman with long dark hair, standing in a doorway. Her hand glowed. She fought to hold back soldiers with sheer will. It was Elena—Mai's mother.
Then came the explosion. She fell. Silence followed.
Duncan dropped his helmet. And ran.
Not toward the village — but into the forest, into exile.
The last thing he heard was the commander shouting: "Coward! We'll find you!"
But Duncan didn't stop. Not until blood ran in his boots, not until the cold mountain air bit his skin.
And there, days later, breathless and bleeding, he reached the cliff. And the violet shimmered.
He didn't pray. He didn't cry. He simply stepped forward.
And the flower answered.
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