The moment they crossed through the Door of Eternity, the world around Aran, Edward, and Lyssa twisted into a dizzying swirl of light, sound, and shadow. For a fleeting second, everything was distorted—a cacophony of dissonant memories, voices, and whispers from lives they had never lived, yet somehow remembered. Then, with a sharp snap, reality reformed.
Aran blinked as his surroundings stabilized. He stood in a quiet, mist-filled forest. The trees were tall, ancient, and ghostly white, their leaves rustling in an unfelt wind. There was a cold stillness in the air, an eerie silence that settled deep in his bones. He reached for his sword, feeling its reassuring weight at his side, and scanned his surroundings.
"Lyssa? Edward?" he called out, his voice swallowed by the mist.
No answer.
He felt a chill run down his spine as he realized he was completely alone. The swirling vortex had separated them.
His heart pounded. Alone again, in a place that defied understanding, Aran forced himself to focus. This wasn't the first time he had been cut off from his allies, and it wouldn't be the last. He needed to remain calm. He needed to survive.
Suddenly, the mist parted, revealing a figure standing in the distance. Aran's hand tightened around his sword's hilt. The figure was tall, cloaked in shadow, but there was something painfully familiar about them. As they stepped closer, the mist cleared enough for Aran to make out their face.
His heart stopped.
It was his father.
"Father?" Aran whispered, his voice barely a breath. The man before him looked exactly as Aran remembered—tall, stern, his eyes burning with the same intensity Aran had known growing up. But his father had been dead for years, slain in a battle Aran had never been able to forget.
"How can this be?" Aran muttered, shaking his head as if trying to dispel the vision. But his father remained, standing there, watching him in silence.
"You abandoned us," the figure said, his voice cold and cutting. "You abandoned your family, your duty. You left me to die."
Aran took a step back, his mind reeling. "No… no, I—"
"You fled," the figure continued, stepping forward with slow, deliberate movements. "You ran, Aran. Just like you always do. You were too afraid to face your responsibilities."
Aran's breath quickened, memories flooding back—memories of that fateful day when his father's forces were overwhelmed. He had been too young, too weak, to save him. But he hadn't run. He hadn't fled.
"I didn't run!" Aran shouted, his voice shaking with anger and guilt. "I couldn't save you, but I didn't abandon you."
The figure's eyes gleamed with cold contempt. "Didn't you? Or have you convinced yourself of that lie to ease your conscience?"
Aran's hand trembled on his sword's hilt. He could feel the weight of his father's judgment, the unspoken accusations hanging in the air like a noose around his neck. But something was wrong. This wasn't real. His father was gone—this was some kind of illusion, a trick of the Door of Eternity.
His father couldn't hurt him anymore.
Aran took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to center himself. When he opened them again, he forced himself to meet the figure's gaze with steel in his voice. "You're not real."
The figure's expression didn't change. "Aren't I?"
The ground beneath Aran's feet trembled as the mist thickened around him, swirling faster and faster until it became a whirlwind of memories. But this time, Aran didn't falter. He tightened his grip on his sword and took a step forward.
"You're just an echo," he said, more confidently now. "A memory twisted to break me. But I know who I am. I know what I've done."
The figure of his father scowled, but its edges began to blur, the shadows surrounding it growing more pronounced. "You can't escape your past, Aran. It will always haunt you."
Aran raised his sword, pointing it directly at the figure's heart. "My past made me who I am. I won't let it control me."
With that, he slashed through the illusion. The figure disintegrated into the mist, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared. The oppressive weight in the air lifted, leaving Aran standing alone in the silent forest once more. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was clear. Whatever this place was, it was trying to break him with his own regrets.
But it wouldn't work. He had come too far to be defeated by ghosts.
Just as the last of the mist dissipated, Aran heard a voice—faint but clear, calling his name.
"Aran! Where are you?"
It was Edward.
Aran sheathed his sword and turned, following the sound of his friend's voice. The mist thinned as he moved, revealing more of the eerie forest. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spotted Edward, standing by the base of a massive, ancient tree. Lyssa was with him, looking none the worse for wear, though her eyes were sharp and alert.
"There you are," Edward said, relief evident in his voice. "We thought we'd lost you."
Aran gave a grim smile. "Not yet."
Lyssa crossed her arms, scanning the surroundings. "This place… it's messing with our heads. Trying to get under our skin."
"I saw my father," Aran admitted, his voice low. "It was… an illusion, a twisted memory."
Edward nodded, his face pale. "I saw someone too. Someone I haven't thought about in years."
Lyssa remained silent, her expression hard. Whatever she had seen, she wasn't ready to talk about it. Not yet.
"We can't let it get to us," Aran said, his voice firm. "The Door of Eternity is testing us. We have to keep moving."
Edward adjusted his glasses and nodded. "Agreed. The Astral Key is still ahead of us, but we're closer than ever. We can't afford to lose focus now."
Lyssa stepped forward, her hand on her sword hilt. "Then let's go. The faster we get out of this cursed place, the better."
As they pressed forward, the forest began to change once again, the mist thickening around them. The challenges were far from over, but Aran was ready. He had faced his past, and though the pain still lingered, it no longer held power over him.
The Astral Key awaited, and they would face whatever came next—together.