Ash Niclose [3]

Ash's breath fogged in the crisp morning air as he and Arya moved toward the village square.

The villagers were already stirring, their eyes wary and tired.

Whispers followed them like a restless breeze.

"Threshold,"

Arya repeated, voice low.

"You said a choice."

Ash nodded, scanning the crowd.

"Every fracture, every shard, every failed version of me—that was the mirror's way of forcing an outcome. But this…"

He gestured toward the forest's edge, where the dark roots still twisted beneath the soil, pulsing faintly.

"This is different. This is the real hinge."

Arya frowned.

"What happens if the Hollow Crown crosses it?"

Ash's gaze hardened.

"The world will not survive it."

They gathered a handful of villagers who were strong and steady.

Not fighters, exactly, but those who understood hardship.