The smoke still covers me when I try to find the same place inside myself that answered against Freya.
It wasn't pure rage. Rage I have to spare, but rage alone only pushes the body forward until something breaks. It wasn't simple desire to win, either. Winning was necessary, but the fight against Freya had been different—because for a few seconds, my blade and hers had spoken a language words couldn't reach. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be understood. I wanted to grow enough to stop depending on luck, on lies, on borrowed memory.
I wanted to keep going. I wanted to deserve every promise I've kept whispering to myself since I came back. I wanted, for once, to be the answer instead of the reaction.
I raise Eventide above my head.
