Kalistras vision for doth #

Your mind is pulled beyond flesh, beyond time.

The light around you dims—not into darkness, but into smoke, thick and choking. The scent of iron, blood, and burnt cloth fills your lungs. And then, you see him.

A boy.

Small. Still. Covered in soot.

You are not in his body, but near him, as if Kalista herself holds your hand and bids you witness.

"He was born in District C-12," her voice echoes, not in sound, but in truth. "Where names vanish, and fire never sleeps. Where children work, and kindness dies quietly."

You watch the boy’s father vanish beneath a collapsing smelter.

No one cries. No one stops.

Quota must be met.

You feel a lash on the back then the boy's tears as he weeps while working

You see his mother. Ayla. Ash-streaked, tired, but radiant in a way the Empire could never understand. She bandages hands with forbidden herbs. She murmurs words she was forbidden to know.

To her children—this boy, and a smaller, sharper girl named Sira—she is more than a mother.

She is a reason to believe.

“In the darkest night,” she tells them, “the light is most appreciated. And in difficult times, doing good is what matters most.”

The vision pulses with that phrase, etched in warmth.

You feel it echo in Kalista’s will.

Sira slips. Blood and bone spill on steel. Her life slips away, The mother—too desperate, too loving—casts a spell.

Too much light.

There are no friends on the soot pits

The Inquisition arrives at dawn.

You feel the boy’s knees buckle as Ayla is dragged through the dirt.

He doesn't remember his screams, so you don't hear them, only the ringing on his ears.

And then—laughter.

Sira’s. But it is not joy.

She never stopped laughing after that day.

You are drawn forward.

Iron halls. The black-walled sanctums of the Inquisitor Order.

You watch the boy become a blade.

He does not resist.

He does not question.

You feel Kalista's recognition. This is not weakness. This is a survivor.

He trains. He hunts. He kills.

He becomes what the Empire asked him to be.

But deep within, like an ember beneath ash, the warmth remains.

He never speaks of his mother.

But her voice still haunts him.

You see him at night, eyes open, lips silently mouthing her words:

“Doing good is what matters most.”

He doesn’t know what it means anymore.

But he cannot let it go.

And then, Sira beside him.

Smiling, soaked in blood.

From humble beginnings they are now known .

The Reaper and the Blade.

The tools of a tyrant.

But Kalista speaks once more, and her voice pierces your bones:

“His revenge drifted beyond his reach — locked behind the walls of the Prison. The one he seeks lies caged beyond time, and the promise he made — in blood, in dust — is being erased by the winds of despair.”

“And now he has lost sight of his truth. It was not the throne, but the scaffold that bled his mother. Not the man — but the Empire — took her screams.”

“He hunts the emperor, but forgets the black-masked executioners. Forgets the chains. The silence. The world that watched and turned away.”

“He was not born for petty vengeance. He was born to be a reckoning — in my name. And that reckoning has lost its name.”

“His wrath grows wild. Aimless. Cracking beneath pride and hubris.”

And now her voice sharpens — not cruel, not cold — but resolute:

“Remind him.” “Remind him why she screamed.” “Remind him who smiled as she died.”

“You will become the reminder.” “Or you will bear the fire of the forgotten. You will carry the wrath of the legion who still cries for vengeance. ”

The vision ends.

The smoke lingers.

And through the silence, a thousand voices scream.