Today, he was not running.
He walked past the Hall of a Thousand Lanterns, now a skeletal ribcage of iron and rot. He passed the Fountain of Youth, now a dry well choked with thorns. Each step was a memory of a war he had not won, a friend he had not saved. the misty ruins and the lone swordsman
They did not fight for glory. They fought for a single, bitter reason: the swordsman had once been the General’s captain. He had watched the Citadel fall, and he had run. He had left his honor in these stones. Today, he was not running
At the heart of the ruins, in the Throne Garden, he found what was left of his past. Each step was a memory of a war
"I am not here to forgive," the swordsman said. His voice was low, raw, unused. "I am here to bury."
But as he turned to leave, he did not look back. He had not reclaimed the Citadel. He had not resurrected the dead. He had simply walked into the mist, faced the ghost he had become, and refused to kneel.