The fog shivered, restless, brushing their coats. Luke's question it balanced there, like a coin spun on its edge, waiting to fall.

Vencian stared at him. His mind went blank for a second before rationality took over. "You're not real."

His voice came out rough but certain that he was right. But why does it 'feel' so real?

Luke tilted his head. "You know better than that. You built lies from illusions. You know what real feels like. So tell me—do I feel fake?"

Vencian shook his head. "You're a residue. That's all."

He denied again, refusing to acknowledge what his doppelganger was saying and started looking around. He couldn't sense Quenya's presence like he can usually do.

Is this another dimension inside that dimension?

Luke took a step closer. His shoes made no sound. "You think changing your name fixes anything? You're still alone when it counts. Acting like solitude's a choice doesn't make it true."

The ground rippled under their feet. The fog shifted as if the space itself disapproved. Vencian braced himself. This isn't happening. It can't be.

Vencian looked down. His hands trembled slightly before he tightened them into fists. "You're nothing but weakness. I buried you for a reason."

"You didn't bury me." Luke's smile curved faintly. "You ran from me. Same as you ran from everyone else. You're not stronger. You've only gotten better at pretending you forgot what broke you."

A crack ran through the ground between them. Vencian stepped back, pulse thudding in his ears. "You're an illusion. I can tell the difference. Illusions move with intention."

"Then what does that make me?" Luke spread his arms slightly. "A ghost? A mistake? Or the part you keep hoping will vanish so you can feel pure?"

The words made him pause. For the first time, his eyes locked on Luke's. The glare that followed wasn't disbelief anymore—it was hate.

"Go on," Luke said. "Say you hate me. Because if you stop, you'll have to admit I'm still part of you."

The fog pulsed with his voice. Vencian flinched as the space bent like glass under pressure. "You're not me."

Luke's tone lowered. "Then who is? That boy who failed out of college? The one who watched his world fall apart and begged for something to save him? You think this body erased that?"

Vencian stepped forward. "I earned this life."

"From what?" Luke asked. "A mistake? A blood ritual you didn't understand? You act like it was fate, but it was a glitch, a slip of will. You're a parasite that learned to talk."

The words struck deep. Vencian's breath quickened. He wants a reaction. He needs one.

Luke watched him with dull curiosity. "You know what happens to the parts of you you try to bury? They don't die. They wait."

Vencian moved before he thought. His hand grabbed Luke's collar and shoved him back. The impact sent small waves through the floor like ripples in water.

"You think strength means forgetting," Luke said. "It means carrying what you hate and not letting go. But you don't carry me. You erase me."

"There is no place for a weak boy I once was in this world."

"Weak?" Luke laughed. It was dry and small. "That 'weak' boy is the reason you even exist. That loser was the first to want more. You only got lucky that the price came in blood instead of shame."

Vencian felt heat crawl up his neck. He doesn't know when to stop.

Luke stepped closer until their faces nearly touched. "You wanted out. You prayed for it. And when it came, you killed the part of you that could still care. That's why she's gone."

"Don't." Vencian's voice dropped low.

Luke smiled wider. "Didn't she teach you anything? Love was never free."

Vencian swung first. His fist caught Luke in the jaw. The impact sent him sprawling backward, but the fog swallowed any echo. Luke hit the ground, grinning up at him with a small smear of blood on his lip.

"That's it," Luke said quietly. "That's who you really are."

Vencian dropped on him and pressed his forearm to Luke's throat. "And that is what I don't want to be."

Luke didn't fight back. His hands stayed at his sides. His breath rasped beneath the pressure. Then, through the strain, he smiled again.

"Go on," he whispered. "Kill me. Maybe then you'll finally know which of us is real."

Vencian's grip tightened around Luke's throat. The fog pressed close. Luke's face had turned red, but the smile stayed.

Then a kick struck Vencian in the ribs. The force threw him sideways. He hit the ground hard and rolled once before stopping. Pain ran through his shoulder.

He lifted his head. Someone stood a few feet away, framed by the pale mist. The shape was familiar before the face came into view.

It was him.

Vencian froze. The man standing there carried the same features, the same expression lines, the same eyes. But something in the posture was different. Confident. Composed. Regal.

Have I ever looked like that? he thought. That sure? That certain of who I am?

The other Vencian walked forward slowly, boots clicking against the unseen floor. His tone was low but filled with control. "You have no right to call anyone weak," he said. "You are one yourself."

Vencian tried to rise, but the air itself felt heavier. "What are you?"

"I am what you took," the man replied. "You wear my name. You breathe through my lungs. You speak with my mouth. And you still dare to call yourself stronger?"

The fog pulsed and the ground cracked open into flashes of memory. A corridor aflame. Footsteps on stone. Screams. He saw shadows of soldiers, then the bodies of Caesor and Moses through the haze.

"You talk about purpose," the other Vencian said. "But your incompetence brought them death."

"That's not true," Vencian said, voice shaking. "I wasn't there."

"You were. In this body. You could have stopped it. You could have seen it coming. Every inconvenience in this world exists because someone was too weak to act. That weakness was yours."

The space around them tightened. The corridor image grew narrower. The sound of fire filled his ears.

"You don't belong here," the other said. "You're an invader. A shadow that learned how to speak my words."

Vencian took a breath that came out as a gasp. Why does he sound like I've thought this before? His throat burned. "I didn't steal your life," he said. "I just lived what you left behind."

The other Vencian's voice cut through the noise. "Then why are you still wearing it?"

Vencian said nothing. His gaze dropped to his hands, but no thought followed. The question hung there, too close to something he'd never dared to name.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

The other Vencian frowned. "Sorry?"

"For them," he said. "For Moses. For Caesor." The words came before he could stop them. His chest tightened. Why am I apologizing? It wasn't my fault. The thought circled in his head.

The other Vencian stepped closer, his eyes dark. "You think sorrow will make you worthy?"

The flames behind him flickered higher, closing in until Vencian could see only his own face in the firelight. The space shrank again.

He couldn't tell anymore if it was guilt or heat that made his breath short.

— — —

Meanwhile…

Roselys was experiencing her worst nightmare.

A child stood a few steps away. The face was her own. Smaller, softer, the eyes the same gray shade. The girl could not have been older than nine.

Two women surrounded her. One held a whip, her other hand resting near a bowl of flour and another of salt. The second woman knelt behind the child, tracing lines across her bare back with a thin blade.

Roselys's stomach turned. Blood ran in narrow trails down the girl's skin. The kneeling woman took a handful of powder mixed with ash and pressed it into the wounds.

The child screamed.

Roselys stumbled forward. "Stop it!" she shouted. Her voice cracked, but neither woman turned. The sound vanished into the fog as if swallowed by it.

The woman with the whip tilted her head, watching the child's body shake. "Hold still," she said to the girl, her tone calm. "The marks must be straight."

The blade moved again. The girl sobbed and reached for the ground. The other woman held her still with one hand on her shoulder, carving deeper where the earlier lines had been.

Roselys covered her mouth. This isn't real. It can't be. She tried to move closer, but her feet sank slightly into the floor. The air pressed down on her like a weight.

The woman dipped her fingers into the salt and rubbed it into the wounds. The child's body arched in pain. The woman's movements stayed methodical, her eyes fixed on the pattern she was forming.

The other woman sprinkled flour over the cuts, creating pale borders around the wounds before slapping the skin hard to set it. The girl cried until her voice broke into small gasps.

Roselys screamed again, louder this time. "Stop! You're hurting her!"

The women ignored her. They worked as if she were invisible.

The child turned her head slightly. Her tear-streaked face looked straight at Roselys. "It hurts," she whispered.

Roselys took a step forward, but the space between them stretched. Please, let it stop.

The blade cut again. The pattern was almost complete—circles, lines, and small symbols pressed into the flesh. The women began to rub the last layer of salt into the cuts. The girl's hands clawed at the air.

Roselys tried to reach her, but the ground folded beneath her.

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