In the dream, I’m standing in an enormous room, all tinted by violet light. I should feel pain—I know I felt it before, even if that part of the memory is blurry and distant now.
But I can’t feel anything.
There are four other light beams. One is empty. The girl in the burgundy robe all but charges at it, only to be knocked to the ground.
She turns to me. Her eyes are luminous, almost glowing, and when she speaks her voice echoes.
“Humanity will fall before its own choices. He would have been the first to try to save it.”
I lift a hand in front of my face. It’s covered in dried blood.
“This isn’t how it happened,” I whisper. “Aurora, this isn’t what happened!”
“If the life of a friend means so little to you,” Aurora booms, “why should you care for the fate of the world?”
I didn’t. I’m dreaming. I have to be. I
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