The echoes stood in a half-circle around her.
Some cried. Some glared. One reached for her with a hand still wrapped in chains. They all wore her face, but none of them were her now.
The obelisk pulsed behind them—its gold veins flaring, casting them in flickering light like they were phantoms on a stage.
Alexandria didn't move. Her eyes, calm and old, watched each of them carefully.
Then they moved.
The first—young Alexandria—sprinted forward, barefoot, eyes filled with terror. Her hand reached out in a child's plea. Alexandria stepped forward and caught it gently.
The girl burst into black shards.
A scream rose from behind—one of the war-torn echoes lunged with a blade made of sorrow and rust. Alexandria caught the blade between two fingers. The metal shrieked, bending inward on itself before vanishing into smoke.
More came.
