Three years had passed since the last light touched the sky above the Labyrinth. The world had moved on—not with healing, but with forgetting. In the heart of Eldrath, the capital city, Aldous's name no longer evoked quiet reverence. It had become a slogan. A weapon. A myth reshaped to serve power.
Rava stood at the edge of the central square, cloaked in gray, her eyes fixed on the towering statue before her. It depicted Aldous not as she remembered him—wounded, quiet, and human—but as a conqueror. The gauntlet on his fist glowed crimson, his stance wide and triumphant. Around the base, children played, unaware of the distortion carved in stone.
She stepped closer. The plaque beneath the statue read.
"Aldous the Guardian — He struck so the world could rise."
Rava's jaw tightened. That was not the Aldous she knew. He did not strike to rise. He chose not to strike at all.
Inside the Council Hall, banners hung from the ceiling—each bearing the symbol of the new regime: a stylized gauntlet surrounded by flames. The phrase "Second Light Initiative" echoed through the corridors. It was a project designed to replicate Aldous's power, stripped of soul, engineered for obedience.
Rava had come to observe. Officially, she was a civilian historian. Unofficially, she was a witness. A guardian of memory.
She walked past rows of cadets training with synthetic gauntlets. Their movements were precise, their expressions blank. No hesitation. No emotion. Just execution.
A voice called out behind her. "You're Rava, aren't you?"
She turned. A young instructor stood there, clipboard in hand.
"I've read your essays," he said. "You still believe Aldous was… gentle?"
Rava nodded. "He was more than gentle. He was deliberate. He chose restraint over dominance."
The instructor smiled politely, but his eyes were cold. "That's not what the world needs now."
Rava didn't respond. She simply walked away, her heart heavy.
That night, she returned to the Labyrinth Tree. It had grown taller, its roots deeper. Beneath it, she placed a stone and carved a single line.
"He chose silence, so the world could listen."
And in the quiet that followed, she felt it again—not a voice, not a presence, but a memory. A flame that refused to be forgotten.