Chrono's Curse

The world was made of shattered names.

He didn't know where the blade ended and his fingers began.

He didn't know if the blood on the ground was his.

He didn't know if the voice in his head was his own… or the Echo's, still whispering.

They stood in the broken memory of a tower that never existed.

The air burned.

The sky pulsed with raw thought, anger, guilt, grief. It had color, but none he'd seen before.

They clashed again, and this time, it wasn't blades.

It was truths.

Alpha's mind screamed as the Echo stabbed into it—not with steel, but with the weight of every choice he'd made.

"You abandoned him."

"You hesitated."

"You wanted to run."

And Alpha remembered.

He remembered the moment he nearly left the boy behind at the rift.He remembered flinching when the Riftborn screamed.He remembered…

…not feeling like a hero.

Not once.

The Echo stepped closer, grinning.

"You wear guilt like armor. But I carry the rage. And rage doesn't break."

Alpha was kneeling.

Bleeding.

But still gripping Vanitas.

The Echo raised his blade. "Time to decide who deserves to be real."

Alpha closed his eyes.

And let go.

Of guilt.

Of pride.

Of certainty.

He opened them again, and the blade in his hand wasn't heavy anymore.

It was still.

It was him.

As the Echo struck, Vanitas moved ,not with power, but with clarity.

Steel met illusion.

And for a single, soul-crushing moment, the world froze.

The Echo looked down at the blade in his chest.

Then up at Alpha.

And smiled.

"…I was so close," he whispered.

Then he cracked.

Like glass struck by lightning.

Pieces of him flew into the void, vanishing into mirrors that no longer reflected anything.

Alpha stood alone.

The mirrors gone.

The battlefield silent.

Vanitas pulsed faintly in his hand.

But something was missing.

His name echoed inside his mind like a stranger's.

Had he really won?

Or had he simply outlasted?

He looked at his reflection in a pool of dream-water at his feet.

And for a moment...

...just a moment...

it blinked out of sync with him.

When he woke, Selene was waiting.

She said nothing as he stumbled into the circle of firelight.

Only handed him a canteen.

He drank in silence.

"Was it him?" she finally asked.

Alpha nodded.

Selene studied his eyes.

Then asked, "Was it you who came back?"

Alpha didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

Because somewhere, deep in the marrow of his thoughts,

a voice still whispered:

"You're the Echo now."

The fire crackled low.

Selene sat across from him, sharpening a blade she hadn't drawn in years, not since her trial.The flames painted her face in gold and shadow.But her eyes stayed fixed on Alpha, as if measuring what had come back from the Rite.

"You don't understand it yet," she said quietly, "but it will come for you again."

Alpha didn't speak. He couldn't. He still wasn't sure the words he'd form would sound like his.

Selene slid the blade back into its sheath and leaned forward.

"I once stood where you stood," she said, "and I made the same choice."

He looked up slowly. "You survived?"

Selene's laugh was sharp, joyless.

"No one survives the Rite. Not completely."

"They called us the Twin Wielders," she said. "A prophecy. Two chosen by Vanitas, born on the same night, under mirrored moons."

"I had a sister. Syra. She was… brighter. Stronger. Loved."

Selene's voice grew hollow, almost fragile."She should've been the one. But Vanitas chose us both."

"That's not supposed to happen."

"No. It isn't."

The Rite of Severance was older than Elaris, older than even the first Rift. A remnant of the Council of Pale Flame, who believed that power must be purified through pain.

When two wielders emerged, a trial was invoked.Not a duel.Not a test.

A ritual of erasure.

Only one reflection could remain.

One becomes real.

One is unmade.

Selene closed her eyes. "We fought in a dream-space shaped by our memories. Every blow felt like cutting through myself."

"In the end… I won."

She looked away.

"But Vanitas never stopped whispering her name."

Alpha frowned. "Who were they?"

Selene's jaw tensed. "The original conjurors of the Rift. Philosophers, they claimed. But their kind worshiped suffering. They believed duality was a curse, only unity through pain could bring order."

"They built the Rite. Crafted Vanitas to remember."

Alpha's grip tightened on the hilt.

"So the sword's alive."

Selene nodded. "Alive… and watching. It records every bearer. Every failure. Every lie."

She leaned in.

"And if you ever forget who you are, it will remind you. Violently."

Far away, the boy stirred in his sleep.

His small hands clenched the blanket as if warding off a phantom.

He dreamt of a hallway of mirrors.

Of voices that spoke with Alpha's tone… but not his kindness.

He saw one version of Alpha kneel beside him.

"I'll protect you."

Then another appeared behind him, whispering:

"Or maybe I already failed."

The boy turned, caught between two Alphas.

One smiled.

One bled.

He screamed.

Alpha's hand jerked.

Vanitas hummed, no, purred, with something old and cold.

He looked at Selene. "Does it ever stop?"

Selene's gaze was distant now, lost in a place she never left.

"No," she said softly.

"But one day, you stop asking who you were."

"And start asking what you've become."