Draven's breathing slowed.
A realization settled over him—not sudden, not explosive, but heavy.
Inevitable.
*Elira's memories…*
They weren't fragments.
They weren't impressions.
They were **complete**.
From her perspective, he had watched himself—
As **Draven**.
He saw it again now, clearer than before.
Himself standing there, mana spilling out in crushing waves—so dense it bent the air itself. Not refined. Not elegant. Just **overwhelming**. A pressure that crushed thought, that demanded submission simply by existing.
And his mother.
He remembered it through *her* eyes.
How he had reached out.
How his shadow rose—not darkness, but something deeper. Something that swallowed light without resistance.
And how he placed her inside it.
Not cruelly.
*Purposefully.*
A containment.
A hiding place.
*So… she's inside me.*
His fingers curled slowly against the bark of the tree.
*Right now.*
That thought alone should have shattered him.
But it didn't.
Because the memory didn't end there.
From Elira's perspective, he saw what followed—the shift. The moment she realized something in him had changed. The certainty that twisted her heart into fear.
And then—
The moment he killed her.
Clean.
Final.
Inevitable.
The memory cut off there.
No escape.
No aftermath.
No explanation.
Just… **end**.
Draven's jaw tightened.
*That's where her memories stop.*
But everything **before** that—
He had all of it.
Elira's entire life unfolded in his mind like a film he could pause, rewind, and replay at will.
Her birth.
Her childhood.
Her training.
The Church.
The faith she clung to with white-knuckled desperation.
The moment she first believed the light she served truly cared.
Her fears.
Her hopes.
Her faith.
Even the small things—how she loved the quiet before dawn, how she hated the taste of certain potions.
Draven exhaled slowly.
*It's like watching a movie through her eyes.*
Not learning.
**Living.**
And the worst part?
He didn't feel like an outsider in those memories.
When she laughed, something in him stirred.
When she cried, his chest tightened.
Draven's lip curled.
*She's twisted.*
A fucked-up bitch.
That was the only phrase that fit.
Elira's memories weren't devotion—they were **obsession** dressed up as faith. Every doubt strangled before it could breathe. Every fear reframed as a trial. Every atrocity justified as *will*.
*A goddess wouldn't even need to speak,* he thought bitterly. *She'd walk into hell smiling if she believed it was holy.*
His fingers flexed.
*That kind of mind is broken.*
Not weak.
Not stupid.
**Broken.**
A sickness that convinced her pain was virtue and slaughter was purity. A sickness that told her her life only mattered if it was useful.
Draven's eyes darkened.
*She would've done anything.*
Lie.
Kill.
Die.
All of it eagerly—as long as she could whisper *"for the goddess"* while doing it.
He scoffed silently.
*Dumb bitch.*
Not because she served a god.
But because she never once asked whether that god deserved it.
The memories proved it, again and again. Every time the Church crossed a line, she didn't stop—
She **leaned in**.
Even when she hesitated… she still swung the blade.
Draven exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
*And people like that are the most dangerous.*
Not monsters who enjoy cruelty—
But believers who think cruelty is **love**.
His gaze drifted into the darkness ahead, beyond the trees, beyond the path they walked.
*If that's what the goddess cultivates…*
Then the Church wasn't hunting demons.
They were **breeding them**.
The cat's purple eyes gleamed faintly as Draven's grip tightened around his siblings—protective, unyielding.
His breathing steadied.
The chaos in his mind—Elira's memories, the rage, the grief—settled into something colder.
Clearer.
*I have mana.*
Not a guess.
Not a hope.
A certainty.
He could feel it now—not as a pool or flame like others described, but as something **woven into him**, layered through flesh, blood, and shadow. Quiet. Obedient. Different.
And more than that—
He understood it.
That was the strangest part.
He hadn't studied.
Hadn't trained.
Hadn't been taught.
Yet when he thought about mana, his mind didn't fumble.
It **moved**.
Circulation. Compression. Release.
Concepts that should've taken years unfolded like muscle memory.
Because in a way…
They were.
Through Elira's eyes, he had watched himself use mana. Shape it. Command it. He had seen the flow from both inside and out—felt intent become reality.
*It's like I've already done this.*
Not theory.
**Experience.**
Borrowed.
Stolen.
Carved straight into his mind.
Draven lowered his gaze to his hand. Slowly, carefully, he reached inward—no force, no rush.
Something answered.
A faint pull.
Mana stirred.
It didn't resist.
Didn't burn.
Didn't rebel.
It **flowed**.
His fingers twitched.
*So that's it.*
*That's why it feels natural.*
Learning wouldn't mean starting from nothing.
It would mean **remembering**.
Something sharp settled behind his eyes.
*Give me time.*
*Just a little time—*
The moment he tried to pull more—
Pain detonated.
Not heat.
Not pressure.
A **violent rupture**, like something trying to be born by tearing its way out.
Draven's jaw locked. His teeth ground together as his body shuddered. He snapped his head aside, barely missing his siblings as blood burst from his mouth, splattering the bark.
More followed.
Blood streamed from his nose, dripping down his chin before he wiped it away with his wrist, breath slow, controlled—**forced**.
His vision swam.
*What the fuck—*
His chest felt like it was collapsing inward, ribs vibrating as if something inside them was expanding too fast. Every vein burned. Every nerve screamed.
This wasn't mana.
Not like in the memories.
*This is wrong.*
In Elira's memories, mana flowed like a river—guided, shaped, obedient.
What he felt now was closer to—
An **explosion**.
Wild. Dense. Unstable.
Like trying to compress a storm into a glass bottle and wondering why it shattered.
Draven dragged in a sharp breath, tightening his hold on Elenya and Lucifer, anchoring himself.
*It's tearing me apart from the inside.*
This wasn't resistance.
It was **overabundance**.
Too much. Too fast. Nowhere to go.
His body wasn't circulating mana.
It was **containing** it.
Like a seal barely holding back something far beyond what it was designed to restrain.
Blood still dripped from his nose as his eyes narrowed.
*So that's it…*
Slowly—very slowly—he released his grip, letting the mana disperse. The pain eased just enough for him to breathe, though his muscles still trembled.
Elenya shifted in his arms, unaware, fingers tangled in the cat's fur.
Draven looked down at her.
Then at Lucifer.
His expression hardened—not with fear, but understanding.
*If I force this, I'll kill myself.*
He leaned his head back against the tree, eyes half-lidded, blood drying on his skin.
"…So I have to do this differently," he murmured.
Not like Elira.
Not like anyone else.
He stared into the darkness ahead, resolve settling into his chest like iron.
*I'll figure it out.*
* I don't get the luxury of failing.*