The shard pulsed within Cyrus's palm, its glow sinking into his veins like molten fire. At first, it burned. His breath caught, his vision blurred. Yet slowly the agony shifted into something heavier — not pain, but weight.
He staggered to his feet, clutching his chest as if he had swallowed a mountain whole. The Sentiment of Sorrow was no simple gift; it was a burden that threatened to crush him with every heartbeat.
"Why… does it feel like dying?" Cyrus gasped.
The figure's chains rattled as she stepped closer, her voice both cold and kind. "Because sorrow is not weakness. It is the heaviest crown a soul can wear. Few endure it, fewer still rise above it. You carry it because no one else will."
Cyrus's legs trembled, but he did not fall. He had carried grief for years, yet this sorrow was different. It was alive, vast, as though he now bore the weight of countless souls alongside his own.
Visions bled into his mind. A battlefield of forgotten ages. Cities burning, warriors screaming, banners torn and trampled in the mud. And through it all, echoes of the fallen whispered into his ears — not words, but memories, their anguish laced with their love, their pride, their rage.
The figure's eyes blazed brighter. "Now you understand. Sorrow is not an end — it is the memory of what was worth fighting for. But remember this, Cyrus: if you let it consume you, you will become its slave. If you wield it, you will become its weapon."
Cyrus clenched his jaw, steadying his breath. His hands no longer trembled. His heart no longer sought to forget.
He bowed his head, not in defeat but in oath. "Then let sorrow be my blade. If this burden is mine, I will carry it. Not for myself, but for the ones who can no longer walk beside me."
For the first time, the figure's lips curved into something almost human — the faintest shadow of a smile.
The pilgrim had not broken.
The burden of sorrow had become his strength.