Tristan and Claire left the bar, with Bart deciding to remain behind so as not to attract unnecessary attention. Yet even as they walked away, Tristan's thoughts remained trapped by the unsettling realization that he had forgotten crucial details concerning their plan. His eyes remained fixed on the pavement beneath his feet while his mind wandered through a maze of fragmented memories.
His palms grew slick with sweat.
His breathing became heavier.
His steps lost their certainty.
A strange heat began to spread throughout his body, growing more intense with each passing second.
As Tristan's body tilted forward, teetering on the verge of collapse, Claire quickly stepped in front of him and caught him before he could hit the ground. His weight fell against her back.
"Thank you..." he muttered between strained breaths. "Claire."
His eyelids slowly drifted shut.
Darkness consumed him.
As consciousness slipped away, he found himself once again standing within that cold, endless void.
"Not again..." Tristan whispered, exhaustion evident in his voice.
The darkness stretched infinitely in every direction. There was no sky, no ground, no sound.
Only memories.
Only pain.
Only Tristan.
As he stood motionless, flashes of horrifying scenes appeared around him.
Clara's severed head tumbling across blood-soaked ground.
Mr. Kenway screaming as flames consumed him alive.
Each memory struck him like a blade.
With every image, Tristan's body trembled.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
He tried turning away.
The visions followed him.
He shut his eyes tightly.
The memories continued regardless.
There was no escape.
Then came the memory he feared most.
A single light pierced the darkness.
Beneath it sat a young boy beside a hospital bed.
His mother lay upon it, frail and weak.
Every breath seemed like a struggle.
Every movement appeared painful.
An oxygen tank stood beside her bed, helping sustain a life that was already slipping away.
The young boy gripped his mother's fragile hand as tears streamed endlessly down his face.
"Mom... please..." he begged. "Please don't leave me."
Despite her condition, the woman slowly raised a trembling hand.
Even that simple action seemed to drain what little strength remained within her.
She gently cupped her son's cheek.
"I could... never leave you..."
Her voice was weak.
Broken.
Barely audible.
Yet it was filled with warmth.
Then her hand fell.
A deafening tone erupted from the ECG monitor.
The sound echoed endlessly.
The sound of death.
The sound that shattered a child's world.
The boy desperately clung to his mother as nurses attempted to cover her face with a white sheet.
"No!"
His voice cracked.
"What are you doing? She's just sleeping!"
He looked desperately toward her motionless body.
"Tell them, Mom! Tell them you're sleeping!"
Silence.
Only silence answered him.
The tears flowing down the boy's face resembled an endless river.
Those same tears now streamed down Tristan's cheeks.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed into the darkness.
This was the memory that haunted him more than any other.
The wound that never healed.
The scar that refused to fade.
Perhaps it was this moment more than any other that had shaped the person he had become.
Tristan slammed his fist against the black floor beneath him.
The darkness cracked like shattered glass.
He raised his head.
His crimson eyes glowed through the tears.
His entire body shook.
Yet despite the pain, despite the grief, despite the crushing weight of his memories, he spoke.
His voice was quiet.
Yet it carried enough conviction to shake worlds.
"I will never let anyone I love die again."
His fists clenched.
His gaze hardened.
"If I must challenge fate itself..."
The darkness trembled.
"If I must defy the heavens..."
The cracks spread further.
"Then I will."
His voice rose.
"I will become a god if I have to."
The void itself seemed to recoil.
"And I will stop them from dying."
...
Garfield's POV
Garfield stood alone within the training yard, staring at an opponent that did not exist.
His imagination served as his sparring partner.
With a thought, he summoned his newly forged axes.
Unlike his original weapon, these axes were smaller and lighter, making them easier to maneuver. Their obsidian blades gleamed beneath the morning sunlight while their iron handles, wrapped in durable black rubber, ensured a firm grip during combat.
Garfield spun the weapons through the air.
The blades cut through the wind, leaving shimmering trails in their wake.
He imagined an enemy lunging toward him.
Instantly, he reacted.
One axe rose to intercept the imaginary strike.
His memory allowed him to reconstruct Tristan's fighting style with surprising accuracy.
Though much of their battle remained fragmented due to his loss of control, certain moments remained vividly etched into his mind.
Especially the way Tristan fought.
Especially the way Tristan survived.
Garfield hurled one of his axes skyward.
The weapon spun like a deadly discus, carving through the air before curving back toward its owner.
He caught it cleanly without even looking.
The new axes allowed him to fight at both close and long range, granting him versatility his previous weapon lacked.
"Good morning, Brother."
A familiar voice interrupted his training.
Garfield turned.
Veronica rolled toward him in her wheelchair, her smile as bright as the morning sun.
He immediately returned both axes to his Celestial Forge.
Grabbing a nearby towel, he wiped the sweat from his brow before walking over to her.
A warm smile appeared on his face.
Dropping to one knee beside her, he spoke softly.
"Good morning, Veronica. How are you feeling today?"
"I'm fine," she replied cheerfully. "I see you're training again. But when are you going to get ready?"
Garfield raised an eyebrow.
"Get ready? For what?"
Standing, he gently took hold of the wheelchair handles and began pushing her through the mansion's expansive gardens.
"Father is taking us to the Third Sector for the Winter Masquerade Ball," Veronica explained, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Garfield's enthusiasm was considerably less apparent.
Balls were not something he particularly enjoyed. Truthfully, he had never attended one before. Everything he knew about such events came from books. As a result, he felt more apprehensive than excited. Still, if Lord Redgrave wished for him to attend, he had little choice.
"Brother, stop!"
Veronica's sudden shout pulled him from his thoughts.
Garfield immediately halted.
Before them stretched a vibrant flowerbed overflowing with countless colors. Butterflies danced above the blossoms, their delicate wings reflecting the sunlight.
It was beautiful.
Veronica extended her hand. One butterfly drifted toward her before gently landing upon her finger. A radiant smile spread across her face. Garfield watched quietly. Where Veronica saw beauty, he saw something else. The butterfly's crimson wings reminded him of the brother he once had.
The brother he had lost. The brother he had betrayed. He knew what he had to do. He had accepted that long ago. Yet despite that certainty, he could not stop the memories from returning.
The weekends spent with Tristan and Amelia at their favorite café.
The countless conversations.
The laughter.
The simple moments.
His favorite memories were often the smallest. Cleaning the dormitory together. Splashing water across the floor until someone inevitably slipped. Singing horribly off-key songs. Sparring late into the evening. Laughing until their sides hurt.
Almost every cherished memory Garfield possessed involved the person he had once proudly called brother.
But things had changed.
Irreversibly.
The crimson-winged butterfly eventually took flight once more, returning to the swarm from which it came.
"Brother?"
Veronica's worried voice broke his train of thought.
"Are you okay?"
Garfield looked down at her.
For a moment, the sadness remained.
Then he smiled.
A convincing smile.
The kind he had become very good at wearing.
"I'm fine," he said warmly.
He continued pushing her wheelchair forward.
"And I can't wait to go to the ball with you."