Something was wrong with his memories.
That was the conclusion he arrived at, no matter which direction he approached it from.
Ten years inside the Ancestral Realm, every day of it, and every hour, all of it was arranged in his mind with the clarity of someone whose memory was closer to a record than a recollection.
He could pull from any of it without effort. Conversations, or battles. The particular quality of light in places he had stood only once and never returned to.
Except for the last two and a half years, the years he had lived as a madman.
Those memories existed in a different state entirely. Patchy and threaded with fog. Multiple versions of the same moment and time, stacked on top of each other like transparencies that didn't quite align, each one slightly different from the last, none of them fully trustworthy.
