"Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but what if it only reveals how deep they really are?"
The world around Seilorah blurred again, shifting like ripples in water. When her vision cleared, she found herself in a small, dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and wax, and a faint glow came from a single, flickering candle. Seilorah looked down, her hands brushing against a worn wooden table. The surface was littered with torn parchment, smudged ink, and strange magical trinkets.
“Where am I now?” she muttered, scanning her surroundings.
“Somewhere you don’t belong.”
She froze at the voice, softer and less confident than she was used to. Turning slowly, she saw him. This Zeyro was younger—barely out of his teens, his face unmarked by the scars she had come to associate with him. His eyes lacked the sharpness of his older self; instead, they held a flicker of uncertainty, even fear.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice tense as his hand hovered over a dagger resting on the table.
Seilorah hesitated, the usual retort dying on her lips. This Zeyro was different. He wasn’t the aloof, sarcastic man she had been battling wits with. He looked... lost.
“I’m no one,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended.
“No one doesn’t just appear in my workshop,” he said, his fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger.
“I’m passing through,” she said quickly, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I don’t mean any harm.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t move to attack her, either. Instead, he studied her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
“What are you working on?” she asked, nodding toward the cluttered table in an attempt to shift the focus. His gaze flickered to the papers, and his expression hardened. “Something dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Dangerous enough that you shouldn’t be here,” he snapped, his voice sharper now.
Seilorah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Even at his most vulnerable, Zeyro managed to be infuriating. Before she could respond, a sudden wave of energy pulsed through the room, making the candle flicker. Zeyro’s expression twisted into one of pain as he clutched his chest, his knees buckling.
“Zeyro!” Seilorah exclaimed, rushing forward instinctively.
“Don’t,” he hissed through gritted teeth, but she ignored him, grabbing his arm to steady him. The moment her hand touched his, the world shifted again. Seilorah was no longer in the workshop. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a stormy battlefield. Lightning flashed, illuminating rows of soldiers locked in brutal combat.
At the center of the chaos stood Zeyro, his armor dented and his sword dripping with blood. His face was a mask of anguish, his every movement radiating desperation.
“This isn’t real,” Seilorah whispered, but the scene unfolded with vivid clarity.
She watched as Zeyro fought his way through the enemy lines, his strikes precise but unrelenting. Each swing of his blade seemed fueled by something more than survival—it was rage, guilt, and sorrow wrapped into one.
“What are you doing?” Seilorah murmured, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.
Her question was answered when Zeyro reached a figure at the heart of the battlefield. A woman, her robes flowing and her face eerily calm, stood waiting for him.
“You can’t stop this,” the woman said, her voice echoing like a thousand whispers.
“I have to,” Zeyro growled, his grip tightening on his sword.
The woman tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Do you think sacrificing yourself will save them? You’ll only doom them further.”
“Better me than them,” he said, his voice breaking.
Seilorah’s breath caught as she watched Zeyro plunge his sword into the ground, the blade glowing with dark energy. A surge of magic erupted from the earth, consuming him in a whirlwind of shadows.
“No!” Seilorah screamed, but the scene dissolved, pulling her back into the workshop. Zeyro was still on the ground, his breathing labored as shadows danced across his skin. Seilorah knelt beside him, her hands trembling.
“What was that?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
He looked at her, his eyes hollow. “My past. The beginning of this curse.”
Seilorah’s heart ached at the raw vulnerability in his voice. For all his infuriating arrogance, Zeyro had carried an unbearable weight for longer than she could comprehend.
“You... you gave yourself up,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I had no choice,” he replied, his tone bitter. “It was either me or my people. And in the end, it didn’t matter. The curse took everything anyway.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of his confession pressing down on them both.
“I didn’t know,” Seilorah said finally, her voice soft.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he replied, his gaze distant. For the first time, Seilorah saw him not as her adversary but as someone who had suffered just as much—if not more—than she had. The energy in the room shifted again, the spell pulling her away from the workshop and back to the present. Seilorah stumbled as she landed, her breath coming in short gasps. Yelle rushed to her side, her expression filled with concern.
“Are you okay?” Yelle asked, steadying her.
“No,” Seilorah said, her voice trembling. “But I think I understand him now.”
Zeyro appeared in the doorway, his smirk replaced with a wary expression.
“Welcome back,” he said, his tone unusually gentle.
Seilorah met his gaze, a newfound determination burning in her chest. “We’re breaking this curse. No matter what it takes.”
"Sometimes, understanding the past is the only way to change the future."