Finn

The air shimmered again, heavy with something I couldn't quite name. It felt familiar, like an echo of a memory I'd tried to bury. My feet slowed on the uneven ground as the mist thickened around us. I turned toward Lyra, but her face was unreadable, her sharp eyes scanning the strange fog rolling in.

And then, everything shifted.

I blinked, and she wasn't there anymore.

The landscape melted away, reforming into something I hadn't seen in years—a forest clearing, glowing faintly under the orange blush of sunset. My pulse spiked as recognition hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd been here before.

I stumbled backward, but the vision dragged me forward, forcing me to watch. There I was—no, he was—crouched behind a jagged boulder, his hair long and tangled, falling over his face. Me. Before. My chest tightened.

I could feel his fear as if it were my own, a cold weight pressing on my ribs. The creature was in front of him—hulking, snarling, eyes like smoldering coals. It stalked closer, its claws scraping against stone. He—I—clutched a rusted knife, knuckles white, but it was useless. Even back then, I knew it was useless.

And then, she appeared.

Lyra.

She was smaller back then—just a girl with wild eyes and a stick she'd sharpened into a spear. She didn't hesitate. Not once. She lunged at the creature with a shout that could've split the sky. I flinched at the memory of her bravery, watching as she fought like she had nothing to lose.

I remembered how I'd felt in that moment: awe-struck, terrified, and ashamed. I hadn't been able to move, let alone help her. I was frozen in place, useless.

The vision didn't let me look away.

I saw her stumble, the creature's claws raking across her arm. I'd forgotten that part—blocked it out, maybe—but now it hit me full force. The blood, the way she gritted her teeth and kept going. She fought until the creature finally fell, her spear lodged deep in its chest.

When it was over, she turned to me, breathless, bloodied, and grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

"You okay?" she'd asked. Her voice was softer than I remembered.

I didn't answer her then. I couldn't. But now, standing in the midst of this vision, I whispered the words I'd wanted to say all those years ago: Thank you.

The scene shifted again, pulling me away from the clearing. My heart raced as the mist swallowed the memory, leaving only darkness behind.

When the light returned, I was back in the present, standing in the misty haze with Lyra beside me. She was staring at me, her brow furrowed, like she'd seen it too.

"What did you see?" she asked, her voice unusually soft.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "You saved me," I said, my voice trembling. "Back then. Before I knew who I was. Before I knew anything."

Her expression softened, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of a tear in her eye. But Lyra being Lyra, she just shrugged.

"Someone had to," she said, her voice steady. But I could tell she felt it too—the weight of that moment, the way it had shaped us both.

The mist swirled around us again, colder this time, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. And then I heard it: a voice, faint but unmistakable, whispering in the air.

Remember.