There was nothing.
No sound. No breath. No warmth.
Only darkness.
Kresos stood alone—barefoot on something unseen, suspended in a space that didn't echo. No walls. No sky. No horizon. Just blackness, stretching in every direction.
But he wasn't afraid.
Not yet.
A soft glow stirred in the distance—faint and silvery, cutting through the dark like a blade through mist. A mirror stood at its center. Tall. Ancient. Its frame was wrapped in delicate carvings too faded to read. It hummed faintly, like it was… alive.
Kresos stepped toward it.
His feet made no sound, yet the mirror grew clearer with each step. He stopped just a few feet away. There was no reflection of the space around him—only of himself.
Except… not quite.
The version staring back at him was older. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Taller. Broader. His crimson hair was longer, swept back like a flame frozen mid-motion. He wore armor—golden, gleaming, etched with glowing runes that shimmered like they were breathing. A round shield was slung across his back. In one hand, he held a sword of pure silver light.
He looked unshakable.
A warrior born of legend.
Everything Kresos had once dreamed of becoming—back when he was still small enough to sit on his mother's lap, listening to her read stories about his ancestors and their battles against the impossible.
His chest tightened.
That was him. It had to be. A glimpse of who he could become.
But then… the light dimmed.
The mirror flickered—like it had remembered it was only ever meant to reflect, not promise.
Fog crept into the glass, curling at the edges. Slowly, horribly, the image began to change.
The armor dulled. Then cracked. Gold flaked away, clattering off into nothingness. The shield vanished. The radiant sword in his hand sagged and melted, its glow fading into dripping wax, until he stood clutching nothing but a single, flickering candle.
His posture hunched. His shoulders slumped. His face bloated, aged, worn. His crimson hair thinned and began to fall in clumps. The eyes—once fierce and determined—now stared back empty, exhausted, defeated.
It was a reflection of something worse than death.
It was a man who had given up.
Who had traded glory for survival. Who made candles not to light the world—but to buy one more forgettable day.
It was his father.
And it was him.
Kresos staggered backward, breath caught in his throat. He wanted to look away. Wanted to scream. But the image held him like gravity. Like shame.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's not me."
The reflection didn't move.
It only stared—candle trembling in a soft, waxy grip.
And something broke inside him.
With a roar—half fury, half fear—Kresos lunged.
His fist slammed into the mirror.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the glass exploded.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward in a burst of light. Shards rained down, vanishing into the black below. The image splintered, fractured, and died.
He stood there, panting, hand bleeding, surrounded by silence.
But the image still burned behind his eyes.
Even shattered, it refused to disappear.
He stared into the void, chest heaving.
Then—
A voice behind him.
Low. Calm. Unsettling.
"What you saw is the future that awaits you—unless you break free."
Kresos turned sharply, heart slamming against his ribs.
A figure stood behind him.
A silhouette, human-shaped but shifting—like shadow struggling to hold form. Its edges were soft, unfinished, as if its body were made of smoke. It absorbed the light around it, a void in the shape of a man.
And its eyes…
They weren't glowing.
They were black—blacker than the void itself. So deep they looked like holes punched through reality. A black so pure it felt like it pierced the soul.
They stared into him.
Through him.
Kresos swallowed, trying to find his voice.
"What... are you?"
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if the question amused it.
"That is not important right now," it said, its voice like whispering ash. "What matters is this: you hold the key to your future."
Kresos frowned, eyes narrowing. "What does that mean?"
"It means," the thing said, gliding forward without a sound, "that the only thing holding you in place… is the chain you refuse to break."
Kresos took a step back. "What chain?"
The figure didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Then, it answered:
"That is the wrong question."
A pause.
"You shouldn't ask what the chain is... but who."
Kresos said nothing.
He couldn't.
The words wrapped around his mind like smoke—intangible, but choking. His lips parted, but no sound escaped.
And then, once more, the figure spoke.
"You must get rid of what binds you. Permanently."
It stepped closer. The eyes remained fixed—calm, unwavering, impossible to escape.
"Until you do, you'll remain what you saw in that mirror. Small. Bitter. Forgotten."
Kresos clenched his fists, his breathing uneven.
"But if you sever the bond," the voice continued, now quieter, more intimate, "I will return to you."
Another step.
"And when I do, I will show you how to become more—more than a name, more than a legacy, more than even your ancestors dreamed."
The voice dropped to a whisper, yet Kresos felt it inside him, like cold fingers brushing the back of his neck.
"I will show you how to become a god among men."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Absolute.
Kresos stared at the figure, caught between fear and fury—and something else. Something buried. Something waiting.
He opened his mouth.
But before he could speak—
The darkness cracked—
And the dream shattered.