This was a mistake.

The thought drifted shallowly through the boy's mind, unable to find purchase. It skipped off the shores of his consciousness, and into the deep well of Memory. Visions flashed across his eyes. The past; his own and others.

"Teacher, there is one thing that I don't understand," the boy said hesitantly. He had almost grasped the basics of Eurya's technique, but there was still a ways to go. "The steps make sense. Through my blade, I access the Memory of the opponent's blade, which has access to the Memory of my opponent. Each step in the process clearly links into the next, but..." He paused, uncertain exactly how to word the confusion in his mind.

"But it defies all you've been taught before?" Eurya guessed with a small grin.

The boy nodded uncomfortably. It had taken him entirely too long to realize that he was doing something supposedly impossible. It clearly worked. He had felt the connection through their clashing blades. But he couldn't understand how, or why.

"What you've been taught was wrong," Eurya stated bluntly. The boy winced at her cold evaluation, and after a moment, her countenance softened. "But not so wrong as you might think."

She waved her hand through the air with a sigh. "Memory is like a great web, connecting all of us and all things. Every action and thought and emotion we produce lengthens our strand, but we are, at the end of the day, bound intrinsically to the world around us."

"But," the boy stammered, "if we are so connected, then why is touch required to read Memory."

His teacher laughed at him, a brief, sharp noise. "It very obviously is not. Your own family's technique proves that, to say nothing of my own. Touch is a natural crutch that all beings create for themselves."

"Why?" the boy asked. Why would he ever cripple himself?

His teacher stared at him, her eyes hard. "Because your tiny mortal mind would pop like a pimple should you try to take in all the world's Memory. Touch acts as a natural filter, allowing you to pick what to sense in a way that won't kill you. It's rare for people to grow beyond that, and all but impossible for someone to connect to Memory directly. Not without going violently insane, at least. Our minds need those extra steps, those mental hoops to separate one object from the next. Otherwise we risk being overwhelmed. Even then, you can lose yourself should you dive too deep."

The boy nodded. He'd experienced that, the last time he had drawn upon his ancestors. He had become they, for a few brief moments. It wasn't as existentially horrifying as he had expected, though still a little disturbing.

His teacher poked him in the chest, and said, "The road to power is a dangerous one, Nicos. Tread carefully."

He hadn't.

His sword had been wielded by a true master. It was something he knew intellectually, but had not been capable of truly grasping. Not until this very moment. He'd thought that he could use Eurya's Memory technique to mimic her Longstride. He thought that it would be difficult, but not impossible. He wasn't delving far, nor deep. He wanted that single moment, to just dip his toes into the Memory of the ancient woman. He touched nothing more than her shadow.

It swallowed him whole. He had never delved into the Memory of someone with so much presence. The boy had been so proud of his ancestry. Six generations of Heroes, all Talented, all skilled. Their lives were less than a blink of the eye in comparison to what he felt now. He stood at the foot of something vast and immortal. It was as if he'd tried to read the Memory of an angry god. He was instantly overwhelmed.

He saw two Seraptis walking hand-in-hand through a stone corridor. They were young, barely reaching the boy's chest, garbed in gaudy jewelry and bright silks. Golden collars were clamped around their necks. The older girl's fist tightened around a familiar dagger tucked into her belt, as she led the younger forward. Both looked afraid.

The image shifted.

He saw his teacher again; older now and alone. She wore a concealing cloak and kept a crude backpack slung across one shoulder. Her hood was down. She had finally grown into her features, though she was obviously younger than the boy was now. Her dagger was tucked in a sash around her waist, as it always was. She was walking across an empty wasteland. Entirely flat, bare rock and stone; no trees nor animals in sight. She glanced to her left, the Memory shifted, and the boy's breath caught.

Emptiness. The edge of the world. The land stopped, and only swirling chaos remained. His master prowled along the boundary of the Great Empty, staring into the void like it was her enemy.

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The boy blinked, and Memory shifted.

He stood in Farathun, beyond the second gate, and watched his peers play. The boy had just seen his fifth season, and it was time for him to learn the blade. His father was currently petitioning the All-King, to allow him to stay home and teach the boy. It was a great honor, his father had said. The boy didn't understand what that meant, but he was happy to spend time with his father. He barely saw the man, and had been raised by a series of grim-faced warriors assigned by the All-King, each colder than the last.

The boy had waited patiently outside the All-King's castle, but the sound of children's laughter had drawn him away. He found them in small park, wrestling and sparring in a small faux-arena. Boys and girls chased each other, screaming with some unfamiliar emotion. He felt an odd longing in his chest as he watched. A younger boy tripped and fell, bloodying his knee. An older woman fawned over him, kissing his cheek. Something inside him lurched painfully, and the boy looked away.

He flinched back at the unpleasant Memory. The shadow of Eurya reared up, and the boy was lost once more.

He saw the Keeper, his soft features and dark hair... and piercing blue eyes. The man was not yet blind. He sat at a table among a raucous crowd, across from Eurya. His eyes met hers, as he playfully rolled a pair of dice in his hand. He extended the other towards her, a clear offer. His lips moved, he grinned, and dice went bouncing across the table.

The boy's soul shivered in horrified realization. What force could have taken the man's eyes? Was he ancient in this Memory? Already the indomitable, wise force of nature that he was today, or was the old man as young as he appeared? What could overcome the man, and what price did his teacher make them pay. What fool would harm her closest companion?

He felt the thought hook on to something solid, and his mind lurched—

He saw a woman, more beautiful and graceful and pure than the boy could even imagine. She was perfection exemplified, a goddess walking among men. Her skin was softer than the softest silk, and her voice was more beautiful than the greatest chorus. He knew all of these things were true, somewhere deep inside of him, even though her current form broadcast none of it.

Her face was clutched in her hands. Her back was arched in a rictus of pain, as golden blood leaked through her fingers. Her mouth opened, and her scream rent the earth asunder.

Eurya sneered as the force washed against her. Her sword, never before witnessed by the boy, rippled like the surface of a lake, as gold dripped down its length. The blade was tinted a deep red, but the boy watched as it drank the shimmering blood and slowly lightened into orange.

Then the scream hit him like a rampaging beast, and cast him out of the Memory.

He was himself again, for the briefest of moments. He was back in the present, in the desert, alone. Foreign memories battered at him, but he gathered his will and forced open his eyes. He saw the bloodstained carcass in the dune across from him, and the scavengers scattering to the wind. The leather package was nearly empty, and his prey was escaping in a flurry of motion.

Why? What had alerted them.

Oh.

The boy was screaming.

Well, that was one question solved. Unfortunately, his prey was quickly slipping away from him. If they escaped, this pain, this experience, would all be for naught. Legends were forged in moments, his father had once said. This was the boy's moment. He believed it. He had to believe it.

He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist, and fell back into Memory. He used brute force, now. None of the subtlety that his teacher had showed him. None of the skill. He simply bulled his way towards his goal, ignoring the massive amounts of information attempting to cram itself into his brain.

He found the Memory mercifully quickly.

He saw Eurya stepping across the stone platform, his sword in hand. He saw her own Memory pushing out onto the world, how her perception shaped reality to her whims. Her ironclad belief in her own ability was a force of its own, battering aside the laws of reality. She had progressed entirely past the need for physical actions. There was no mimicry involved here. There was no long chain of Memory, linking one action to the next to the next. The boy was entirely incapable of following what she was doing. All he could do was witness. He utterly lacked the ability to imitate her actions. His plan had failed before it had even begun.

Unacceptable. He pulled on the Memory, on that shadow of his teacher, and drew it into himself. He used resonance, merging with it and drawing upon it. He drowned in its presence. For a moment, he thought he felt something. An emotion not his own. A flash of surprise, amusement, and approval. And a final Memory unfurled before his eyes.

A man lay on the ground, beaten and bloody, but unbowed. His face was familiar to the boy, despite the mud and blood caked upon it. It was so very similar to the face that looked back at him from the water's edge. A distorted reflection. The same strong brow and square jaw. The boy carried this man's features, but this was not his father. This was not any ancestor that he recognized.

His body fell into shadow, and the man stared upwards, caught between awe and confusion.

"Why have you spared me?" the man asked.

The boy felt his lips (not his lips) curving into a lazy smile. His master's voice echoed out of his mouth, layered upon his own.

"I cannot abide wasted potential."

Power seized him, as he fell back into reality. His body took a step, his foot left the ground, and the world blurred around him. His training blade flicked out in a single motion. His foot came back down upon the sand, atop the dune where the scavengers fled. Something wet splashed across his legs. His blade was coated red. He turned, slowly, still caught in a haze. He felt a will not his own tilting the corner of his lip into an arrogant smirk.

Every scavenger lay dead, scattered in pools of blood. Their bodies were flayed, like they'd been cut hundreds of times. The flesh was rent from their bones.

The boy felt the Memory leaving him, the shade of his master vanishing with a laugh. His body ached, his head spun. His sword fell from limp hands, and the boy collapsed into the desert sand.

“Oh, not again,” the boy managed to mutter, as his eyes shut and his consciousness fled.