Raiking and Ezmelral stepped through the village gates, the wooden arch creaking like an old friend's welcome. The air buzzed with life—families weaving through bustling streets, their chatter a warm hum against the fading daylight. A mother tugged her child toward an alchemy shop, its windows aglow with bubbling vials; nearby, proud parents dropped off wide-eyed youngsters at the Essence school, where instructors demonstrated basic weaves of Fire and Water.
Ezmelral's gaze lingered on them, her face clouding with sorrow. Memories crashed in—happy families just like these, once her own, now ashes in the wind.
Just days ago... that was us. Cake, stories, safety.
Her throat tightened. She turned to Raiking, who strode ahead without a glance, his crimson eyes fixed on some distant point.
"How will you save them?" she asked, her voice laced with urgency. "Should I... warn a few? Tell them to flee while you fight the Praexers?"
Raiking paused, turning to meet her gaze. In her eyes, he saw it—the raw, desperate plea to spare others her fate.
"It's too late," he said simply. His tone was flat as weathered stone.
"How can that be?" she protested, gesturing wildly at the oblivious villagers. "There's still time—look at them! They're happy, alive. We can warn—"
He offered no further words. But in the quiet vault of his mind, Eidolon's voice stirred.
You must show her, it urged. If she witnesses the truth with her own eyes, she may surrender to it... or still choose to fight it, like she once did.
Raiking hesitated. It was a rare ripple in his calm.
Hesitate not, Eidolon pressed. One such as you understands the burden of cause and effect. Every choice summons consequence, and every silence carries its price.
Raiking held his tongue, but the spirit's logic pressed against his will. Without warning, he placed his large hands on Ezmelral's slender shoulders.
"What are you—?"
Before she could finish, the world shifted. It smudged like wet ink on parchment, colors bleeding and reforming in a dizzying swirl. The village blurred, then snapped back into focus.
The light was different. The air carried a faint, unfamiliar chill.
"What... what happened?" she gasped, staggering back. The streets looked the same, yet... not. People moved in subtle ways that felt off, like echoes of a dream.
"We've stepped back," Raiking replied calmly. "Into the past."
"The past?" Confusion knit her brow.
He nodded toward the horizon, where the sun hung lower than moments before. "If you truly want to understand—to know—then see it with your own eyes. Words alone won't suffice."
Shock and bewilderment warred on her face, but she managed a shaky nod. They began to walk forward, the village unfolding around them in eerie familiarity.
"Where are we going?" she asked after a moment.
"To one of the sources," he said, stride unchanging.
"Sources?"
No answer came. They halted outside a plain-looking fabric store, its sign weathered and unremarkable. Raiking stepped forward without hesitation—she braced for a collision, but he phased right through the solid door like a stone dropping into water.
Heart racing, she gathered her courage and followed. The wood yielded like mist.
"What was that?" she whispered, blinking in the dim interior.
"We aren't really here," Raiking explained, scanning the shop.
The store owner—a portly man sorting threads—paid them no mind. His eyes glided past them as if they were ghosts.
Ezmelral watched as Raiking walked straight toward the solid back wall. He phased through it effortlessly. Steelng herself, she followed, stepping through the barrier as if it were smoke.
She emerged not into a street, but into a scene that stole her breath.
The room was dimly lit, shadows clinging to corners like secrets. Scattered chairs held a handful of guests—shifty figures in hooded cloaks, murmuring in low tones. On a makeshift stage stood a man and a woman, their expressions hollow, eyes downcast. Chains shackled their ankles.
Ezmelral's stomach twisted. She knew this place from whispered warnings.
"Is this... one of those illegal slave markets?" she whispered, horror lacing her voice.
Raiking nodded silently.
"What are we doing here?" she asked, fists clenching.
Instead of answering, Raiking placed a hand over her eyes. She tensed but didn't pull away. When he lifted it, the world had shifted again—subtly but profoundly.
Now, scanning the room, she could see inside the people. Their lower stomachs glowed faintly, revealing swirling Essence Cores. But nestled within each one was something wrong.
Dark, pulsating seeds throbbed like rotten hearts.
"What... what is that?" she breathed, pointing.
"A seed of corruption," Raiking replied gravely.
"What does it do?"
"It's what twists an Exar—a mortal like you—into a Praexer."
So that's the root of it all... what stole my mother.
Her fists tightened until her knuckles whitened. "Tell me more," she demanded, eyes locked on his.
He gestured to the seeds. "Pay close attention to their sizes."
She squinted. "Some are bigger than others... like they're growing."
The slave owner emerged from a back room then, an oily man with a predatory smile. His seed was the largest of all—a bloated, writhing mass pulsing in his core like a festering wound.
"Why is his so much bigger?" she asked, disgust curling her lip.
"You'll see," Raiking murmured.
He placed his hand on her shoulder again. A familiar warmth spread, and the world blurred. In a blink, they were back on the sun-dappled streets, the fabric store's door creaking shut behind them.
Ezmelral's gaze wandered across the bustling street, snagging on a familiar figure—a gaunt man hauling crates. His chains were hidden under ragged clothes, but the haunted slump of his shoulders was unmistakable.
"Is that...?" she whispered.
Raiking nodded.
They had leaped through time again. Before she could process it, the man stumbled, dropping a package. Immediately, an older figure draped in fine silks lashed out with a vicious kick.
"You worthless cur!" the man bellowed, spittle flying. "Filth like you doesn't deserve the air you breathe!"
Rage boiled in Ezmelral's chest. She stepped forward instinctively, ready to intervene despite the phantom veil separating them.
"What can you do?" Raiking's voice cut through, halting her. "Don't waste breath on outbursts. Pay attention—to the locals."
She froze. The truth crashed back: they were mere specters here. Swallowing her fury, she scanned the crowd.
Some villagers paused with worried expressions, hands twitching in silent sympathy. Others averted their eyes, hurrying past with practiced indifference.
But through her enhanced sight, she saw it.
The seeds of corruption pulsed. For those who acknowledged the brutality, the dark nodules swelled slightly, feeding on the unspoken outrage. For the indifferent, they grew too, nourished by the quiet complicity.
Each reaction—whether empathy or apathy—fattened the rot within.
Ezmelral whirled on Raiking, horror dawning on her face. "What is the meaning of this?"