The visions shifted—twisted into a hellscape of blood and chaos. Vas soared above clashing armies, her ferocious battle cry echoing across the fields soaked in crimson. Warriors, under her influence, fought with maddened fury, performing feats of savage brutality. The taste of war was bitter and exhilarating, victory laced with carnage, defeat mired in despair. Vas could feel the weight of her decisions—the devastation, the glory, the lives destroyed and saved in equal measure.

But then, in flashes, there was something else. A glimpse of her heart. Her fierce, burning love for her land and her people, a love so intense it scorched everything in its path. He felt her betrayal as her people slowly turned their backs on her, abandoning the bloodstained altars where they once offered reverence. Temples crumbled, not with violence, but with neglect. Her cries echoed in the emptiness of forgotten sanctuaries, a goddess slowly fading from the minds of those she had once protected.

The horror deepened. Vas saw Morrigan as she drifted through centuries of obscurity, a spectral figure stalking the edges of reality, more phantom than deity. Her once magnificent form flickered, power draining like a dying flame. The weight of time, of being forgotten, pressed in on her—an endless abyss of oblivion that threatened to consume her entirely.

And then, just when it seemed she would vanish forever, he saw it—a spark. In the depths of her storm-gray eyes, a flicker of defiance remained. Hope. She had found a witness. A mortal who could feel her, see her. And more importantly, a chance to reclaim her stolen legacy.

The memories receded like the tide, leaving Vas standing in front of the forge, breathless and shaken. The earrings—now imbued with Morrigan's spirit—gleamed in his hands, the crows etched on them seemed almost alive, their beady eyes holding some ancient, unspoken secret. The short chains dangled, delicate yet foreboding, ending in the intricate circles where the crows perched, wings raised as if ready to leap into the sky.

Vas understood now. He could feel her desperation, her need to return to power, to reclaim what was hers. And for reasons he couldn't yet fully explain, he knew he would help her.

Morrigan's voice echoed softly in his mind. "You see why I want to come back, don't you? And you'll help me. You know it, even if you don't want to admit it yet."

Vas clenched the earrings in his hand, his heart pounding in rhythm with the distant echoes of battle drums. "Yeah," he whispered. "I'll help you."

After returning fully to the normal world, Vas felt the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. Though The Archivist had healed his wounds, a deep, lingering soreness remained. Every step felt heavier, fatigue gnawing at him from the edges. He guessed he was close to the camp he and Anya had set up before entering the temple, and he was right. After an hour of walking, he stumbled upon the familiar clearing.

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Anya wasn't there, but Madeline's motorcycle stood waiting, a note attached to the handlebars:

"Be careful. The place is crawling with Kadmon and SCD agents. The motorcycle is for disposal—use it as you wish. Also, let me know when you're safe. I'm with Lily at the hospital."

Vas smiled faintly, relieved that everyone was safe, but the note also sparked a sense of urgency. He swung a leg over the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath him, and set off toward the city.

It was deep into the night when he finally arrived. The streets were quiet, shadows long and stretching, the cityscape a cold, gray labyrinth. Before going home to rest, Vas ditched the motorcycle in an abandoned alley, its usefulness expired. He stripped off the clothes Madeline had given him, tossing them into a nearby dumpster—they were now a liability. The outfit had been seen by too many eyes during the battle, and Morrigan shared his caution.

Pulling out his communication device, Vas requested a vehicle to take him home. When he arrived, the house was empty, the silence unsettling. He could guess where everyone was, but at that moment, he didn't care. Fatigue weighed him down like lead, and all he wanted was rest. He stumbled into bed, and the moment his head hit the pillow, he was out cold.

In his dreams, Vas awoke in a strange, suffocating city. Everything around him was washed in shades of gray—concrete buildings stretching endlessly, people dressed in muted tones, their hurried movements without purpose. He felt an eerie disconnect as if the life had been drained from everything, including himself. Vas realized with a jolt that he had no control over his own body. He was a passenger, watching as his limbs moved of their own accord, directing him into a sterile clinic.

Inside, he took a seat. One by one, people began filing into his office—clients, patients. He realized he was a psychologist in this world. They spoke of their problems, their traumas, their burdens. But something was off. Vas felt no empathy, no concern. There was a numbness within him, an utter detachment from their emotions. It wasn't apathy, but a calculated distance that allowed him to do his job with cold efficiency. He wasn't blinded by their pain or his own; he listened, interrupted when necessary, and said just enough to guide them to their answers. The strange thing was—he excelled at it. His detachment was a strength.

The day dragged on, and as the sun set in this gray world, Vas was tired. Not physically, but emotionally drained from the effort of faking concern. He returned to his apartment—modest by his current standards—and tended to his plants with meticulous care, the only living things that seemed to matter. A couple of cats slinked by, indifferent to his presence. Later, a woman entered the dream. In the dream's context, Vas knew she mattered to him, but not out of love. It was something far darker, a sense of possession. She was important because she belonged to him, not for who she was.

The dream disturbed him, but it also made something clear. His detachment in battle wasn't a new development—it was a reflection of his past self. He didn't see people as people. They were objects to be manipulated, fixed, improved. And when he succeeded in helping them, the sense of accomplishment was hollow—satisfaction in their improvement, not in their happiness. It was the same in battle. The enemies he faced weren't humans to him; they were obstacles, things to be removed or shaped to achieve his goals. The realization was jarring, a difficult truth to make peace with.