Tormo sank into a dream that was not sleep, but a slow fall into himself.
He was standing—or so it felt—in a place with no real ground. Everything around him existed… yet vanished the moment he reached out.
He touched the air, and it disappeared.
He touched the light, and it went out.
He touched a memory, and it turned into emptiness.
He felt as though his very existence was harmful.
As if everything that came close to him was corrupted.
As if a curse lived beneath his skin.
A voice whispered in his ear—close, sticky, heavy:
"You are poison."
His heart stopped for a moment.
The word was not just an accusation… it was an explanation for everything that had happened.
Ravan's madness.
His brother's death.
Neva's betrayal.
The burned villages.
But before he collapsed, another voice came.
Calmer.
Deeper.
Not from outside… but from within him.
"You are not poison."
The voice was not loud, but it was steady.
As if Tormo's own soul was trying to hold him from the inside—without awareness, without polished words.
A desperate attempt by a child who could not bear all this pain.
Tormo moved within the dream. His steps were heavy, and each step left a black shadow behind.
He saw a woman standing before him.
His mother.
He could not remember her features clearly, but his heart recognized her instantly.
The warmth.
The scent.
The sense of safety he had forgotten had ever existed.
He approached her slowly, afraid she would vanish.
When he touched her… she embraced him.
For a very brief moment, everything disappeared.
The fear.
The blood.
The snow.
The screams.
He was just a child… in his mother's arms.
Then the darkness began.
Her body gradually turned into a shadow.
The warmth withdrew.
The embrace grew cold.
And in an instant, she pushed him away.
She vanished.
Tormo fell to his knees, without a sound.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He only felt that his chest was empty.
He lifted his head and saw someone else.
Standing firm.
A faint smile on his face.
His brother.
Mok.
Tormo ran to him without hesitation, and when he reached him, Mok opened his arms.
He held him tightly—a real, honest embrace that did not fade.
He said in a clear, reassuring voice:
"You are strong."
He tightened his grip and added:
"You don't need anyone… at all."
The words were not cruel.
They were an attempt to protect him.
As if Mok wanted to leave him a shield instead of himself.
Tormo felt something break inside him… and something else take shape.
Not healing.
But a cold solidity.
He lifted his head to speak…
But Mok began to fade.
He reached out quickly, tried to grab him, but his fingers passed straight through.
He vanished—like everyone else.
The first voice returned, whispering:
"You are poison."
But this time, he was not alone.
The other voice—his soul's voice—returned, a little stronger:
"You are still alive."
Tormo woke up.