A dream. Or a memory. A figure in black cloak walking away. “Don’t go brother! Don’t leave us alone.” The figure looked back but was obscured by his hood. “No!” the child yelled. They stepped forward, looking at the illusion, at the mirage. The young man before them was never a boy, scarred and wounded, they looked onward and walked on, maybe he thought about them somewhat, maybe he thought of nothing at all.

Playing, training, learning, family. The knights and their fellow trainees were their family, even more than him, but there was a certain connection, a kinship, and a kindness to wherever he was there. They were similar in finding strength in knighthood and in battle, and they found comfort in doing the right thing. Although they did not know anything else, and only knew that their direction was the only correct one.

The knights did indeed do good for the ‘Holy Flame’ and they did not question it. Their brother was a knight as well, but he was more like a shadow, like a black cloak. Blood. A knight, an elder man, someone they knew, someone they saw for years in their life. Down on the ground. A figure sat above him, mourning the dead. Was this Sethan’s dream, a journey in which they knew they would risk their lives in battle.

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An unknown force, a surprise attack, but he died in place of him, in a way his death was still Sethan’s fault. Death had already come to some of his compatriots, but death was unnatural, an aberrant in regard to life. He accepted his sacrifice and set his eyes on the goal, peace, safety, for the glory of the kingdom. The figure shifted, again looking over a corpse. It was Sethan, and Asralyn looked over him. A rare coincidence, a ‘lucky’ occurrence saved him from meeting the fate that the other knight had met.

She had failed in protecting him, and a life was lost in consequence. She did not even know their name, and yet they meant something to her brother, and likely to somebody else. If she had accompanied on this mission, and he had suffered a mortal fate, it would have been for nothing. If she had died in his stead, would he feel the same thing? She looked at a shadow.

It was momentarily Felkin, the one who saved them but turned into her brother. He was a shadow, obscured from the light. And now he was missing, a faint shadow that faded away. They had his likeness, so they remembered him through each other. Metas was still there, in her belief, in his belief. He was a shadow just in reach, and he could be reached with a simple light. A stranger, Felkin glowed with that light. Only as they looked closer, the light was from his eye, a red crimson, stranger from the sun or any firelight. Felkin’s eye grew brighter and Metas’ form was revealed more and more to the point that they could see scars.