The cold hit first. A brutal, biting cold that gnawed at Aiden's skin like sharp teeth. Snow and ash swirled around him, carried by a howling wind that whispered indistinct voices. His boots crunched on brittle, cracked earth, every step met with resistance. The sky above was a roiling mass of rust-red clouds, heavy with smoke. Somewhere beyond, a dim red sun struggled to pierce the haze.
It felt too real. The cold. The weight of the air. The ache in his chest.
Aiden's eyes locked onto the figure ahead. A man knelt in the distance, his back to him, framed by the glow of the dying sun. He clutched a broken staff, its jagged edges frosted with ice. His clothes were torn and layered with makeshift rags. His breath came in shallow puffs of mist.
Aiden recognized him instantly. It was him.
Frost clung to his wild hair, his lips cracked and blue from the cold. His hands shook as he ran his fingers along the surface of his broken staff, the motion repetitive, aimless, like a machine running on fumes. His eyes were hollow pits, empty of everything but exhaustion. He muttered to himself, his voice carried by the wind.
"I can't," Wanderer Aiden murmured, his voice brittle, raw with defeat. He didn't look at Aiden, but somehow, he knew he was seen. Slowly, his head tilted, just enough for his dull eyes to meet his own. "Lose her again."
A brittle laugh escaped his lips, dry and sharp as cracking glass. It wasn't amusement—it was something breaking. He tapped his chest with his fist once, twice, as if trying to force something back into place. "Why do I even try?"
Aiden's throat tightened. He opened his mouth to speak, but—
The world turned.
Heat roared to life around him. The air shimmered with the intensity of a forge. Flames erupted in every direction, rising like pillars from the ground. The acrid tang of blood and soot filled Aiden's nostrils. It was suffocating.
Atop a hill of broken bodies, the Unyielding Aiden stood like a monument. Dark steel armor covered him from head to toe, battered but unbroken. His face was grim, his jaw tight with focus. His gauntlets glowed—one a deep, molten red like the heart of a volcano, the other crackling with blue arcs of lightning. Every movement was precise, every swing deliberate.
Crack.
A warrior's skull shattered under his fist. Unyielding Aiden never flinched. Blood splattered across his visor, but he didn't blink. His breathing was even. Calculated. Methodical.
"For her," Unyielding Aiden growled, his voice sharp as iron on stone. His eyes flicked to Aiden, locking on him with uncanny clarity. "Whose there?" He crushed another opponent beneath his heel, his gauntlets glowing brighter. "I will find you. I will break you."
Aiden's heart raced, his hands clenching. No, you won't. I wont break like you.
But his other self wasn't listening. He raised his fists, one flame, one lightning, and slammed them together, sending out a shockwave that knocked Aiden back. The heat seared his lungs, the roar of fire drowned out all sound.
Silence. No fire. No cold. No noise.
The air smelled faintly of iron and old wood. Aiden rose to his feet and felt something crack beneath his foot. He looked down.
Bones.
The ground was a sea of bones, brittle and dry, stretching beyond the horizon. He walked, his breath shallow, his footsteps loud in the quiet. His gaze was drawn forward, to the throne at the center of it all.
The Crowned Aiden sat atop it, draped in gold-trimmed robes over black armor. His eyes glowed like molten gold. His face was too still. Not calm—controlled. His fingers drummed against the armrest. In his other hand, he twirled a golden coin, the surface etched with runes that shimmered with soft, flickering light.
"You're late," the Crowned Aiden said, his voice a low grind of metal on stone.
Aiden froze. His voice caught in his throat.
"You can see me?" Aiden asked, his tone sharp with warning.
The Crowned tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion. His grin was sharp, his teeth faintly glinting in the dim light. "Yes, I can," he said, each word deliberate as he leaned forward. His molten eyes burned brighter. "And now you'll always see me."
A cold hand gripped Aiden's chest.
The bones cracked louder now. The throne loomed larger. The Crowned stood, his presence suffocating. Every step he took echoed, heavy with the weight of command. He raised his scepter—a smooth, flawless crystal that shimmered like polished ice—and pointed it at Aiden.
"Go ahead," he said softly. "Run. You know where you'll end up."
The world shattered.
The warmth of the Titanic's grand hall rushed over him like a wave of fresh air. Aiden gasped, gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only real thing in the world. His heart slammed against his ribs. His breath came fast, uneven. His eyes darted from side to side.
Rowan and Amara's laughter echoed from the dance floor. Kieran's low voice rumbled nearby, his smile faint as he shared quiet conversation with the elderly couple. Plates clinked. The smell of warm bread and wine lingered.
It was all so normal.
Aiden's hands shook. His eyes locked onto the Ring of Vows on his finger. Its faint glow pulsed with his heartbeat.
"You see now," Captain Smith said, his voice steady but unyielding. "Every choice. Every path."
Sylva stood beside him, her eyes heavy with understanding. She knelt, resting a hand on his shoulder, her glow gentle but firm. "You saw what they became because they forgot one thing." Her gaze held his, full of quiet resolve. "They forgot what they were fighting for."
Aiden's breath steadied. He turned the ring on his finger, feeling its weight like it had grown heavier. He looked up, gaze sharp with something new. Not fear. Not doubt.
Conviction.
"Then I won't forget," he said, his voice steady as stone. His eyes narrowed, his hands curling into fists. "I'll face them all."
He thought back to the weapons of his other selves—The Wanderer's broken staff, barely able to support his weight; The Unyielding's twin gauntlets, so heavy with force they seemed to drag his body down with each swing; and The Crowned's crystal scepter, pristine, perfect, and utterly cold. Each of them had wielded power as something external, something they gripped in their hands. Tools. Symbols. Weapons. Each one sharp, each one weighty, and each one a burden.
Aiden's gaze dropped to his hand. To the ring. His power wasn't something he held. It wasn't something he wielded like a club or raised like a scepter. It was a promise, a vow bound to his very soul. It wasn't worn for the world to see—it was worn for himself. It wasn't meant to crush, conquer, or dominate. It was a reminder. A reminder of why he fought, not just how.
Captain Smith raised an eyebrow, his grin faint but approving. "Wear it like armor, boy. Names have power."
Aiden's gaze swept across the room. He saw Rowan and Amara spinning in rhythm, their joy untarnished by war. He saw Kieran at the table, his smile light but genuine. He saw the captain, calm as ever, watching him with quiet respect.
Then his gaze shifted to Sylva. Her eyes met his, her glow flickering like the faint embers of a dying fire.
She nodded.
Aiden looked down at the Ring of Vows one last time. He curled his fingers over it, squeezing tight. His eyes lifted, his jaw set.
"I am Aiden," he said, voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "I am the one who walks forward."
The Titanic swayed gently. The music played on. The world turned.
No more running. No more looking away.
He would face them all.