"Want begins in silence long before it becomes a choice."
The parallel Aarav stepped forward with slow, deliberate precision, each movement too controlled to be human. His presence bent the air around him, the pressure shifting like gravity tugging in the wrong direction.
Aarav's breath stilled.
He wasn't looking at a ghost.
He wasn't looking at a broken version.
He was looking at a possibility that had _chosen itself fully_—and left everyone else behind.
The parallel's gaze slid over the group with disinterest until it landed back on Aarav.
"You can't run from me," it said softly.
"Because you made me."
Meera stepped between them, shoulders squared.
"He didn't make you. Whatever you are—"
The parallel didn't even glance at her.
"You're irrelevant."
Amar took a step forward, sword raised.
"Say that again."
The parallel held out two fingers without looking.
A ripple of force exploded outward.
Aarav barely had time to shout—
"MEERA—AMAR—DOWN—!"
They hit the ground as the shockwave slammed into the pillars, cracking stone and sending debris flying.
Arin threw up a shield around the boy and older Aarav.
Stone dust swirled in the air like ash.
The parallel didn't attack again.
It just… watched Aarav.
Aarav's hands shook with fury.
"Don't touch them."
The parallel tilted his head.
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
His voice was calm.
"You keep caring about weight that drags you down."
"They're not weight—" Aarav began.
"They are," the parallel said flatly.
"They slow you.
Weaken you.
Make you hesitate."
Aarav stepped forward, jaw clenched.
"If you think connection is weakness, you're not me."
The parallel smiled the way a knife glints.
"I'm the version of you who survived longer."
Older Aarav choked.
"No—no, that's not how it works—he can't be—"
The King stepped forward then, interposing himself slightly between Aarav and the parallel.
"Why are you here?" the King demanded.
The parallel didn't break eye contact with Aarav.
"To claim what he abandoned."
Aarav scowled.
"I didn't abandon anything."
The parallel lifted his hand.
"Oh?"
The air crackled.
A whisper of energy gathered in his palm.
"Then why did your Archive forgive you so easily?"
Aarav froze.
He hadn't noticed it until now—
the Archive of Abandoned Selves hadn't tried to pull him in, hadn't tried to break him.
Because he had already rejected something long before entering it.
The parallel stepped closer, aura distorting the light.
"You left something inside yourself behind," he said.
"A part of your identity you decided was too heavy. Too old. Too fragile."
Aarav felt something tighten in his chest.
Meera grabbed his wrist.
"Don't listen," she whispered urgently.
But Aarav already knew what the parallel meant.
A version of him that always held back.
A version of him that apologized too quickly.
A version of him that lived quietly to stay safe.
He had shed those versions one by one.
The parallel whispered:
"And I am what formed in the empty space you created."
Aarav shook his head violently.
"You're not me."
The parallel's smile widened.
"I am exactly what you're capable of."
Arin stepped forward, staff blazing.
"This is a paradox identity. A parasitic anchor. It forms when someone with unresolved resonance sheds too many selves too fast."
Older Aarav looked sick.
"It's an identity that fills the gap.
An identity made of refusal.
Of strength without vulnerability.
Of self without connection."
Aarav swallowed hard.
"So it's what I'd be if I chose nothing but myself."
The parallel nodded.
"Yes."
Aarav took a breath.
He didn't step back.
"If you're my strength, then why try to hurt them?"
"Strength isn't kindness," the parallel whispered.
"Strength is survival."
He raised his hand again.
Meera grabbed Aarav's arm with one hand, Amar with the other, dragging him backward.
"Aarav—he is not reasoning—move—!"
The King stepped in front of Aarav, silver resonance blazing.
"Enough," the King said.
The parallel's head snapped toward him.
"You," he hissed.
Aarav blinked.
"Why do you care about him?"
The parallel scowled, eyes narrowing into something cold and sharp.
"Because he made you weak."
Aarav's stomach dropped.
"What?"
The parallel pointed at the King.
"He taught you how to trust.
How to feel.
How to break correctly.
He taught you that connection is worth the fracture it causes."
The King's expression didn't change.
"Those lessons saved him."
The parallel stepped closer, aura warping the dust around him.
"They caged him."
Aarav moved then, stepping beside the King.
"He didn't cage me."
The parallel's voice lashed out like thunder.
"Then why do you listen to him?
Why do you look at him as if he's the answer to your questions?
Why do you follow him when you should outgrow him?"
Aarav stiffened.
He didn't answer.
The parallel stepped forward until their faces were only a foot apart.
"You don't want to become me," he said softly.
"But you fear surpassing him."
Aarav froze.
Because that struck too close.
The parallel's voice dropped to a whisper:
"I am not your worst future.
I am your unmet potential."
Aarav stared at him.
"You're wrong."
"Prove it."
Meera gripped his sleeve, eyes fierce.
"Aarav—don't let him decide what you are."
The parallel looked at her with contempt.
"He doesn't need you."
Amar stepped forward, blade raised.
"He does," Amar growled.
"Because he chose us."
The parallel looked bored.
"Pathetic."
Older Aarav shook his head, voice cracking:
"If you fight him, he grows stronger.
He gets sharper.
He learns your weaknesses."
Arin nodded grimly.
"A paradox identity refines itself through conflict.
A direct battle will only solidify him."
Aarav turned to the King.
"What do I do?"
The King's gaze was steady.
"You do not defeat him," he said quietly.
"You redefine him."
Aarav's breath stilled.
"How?"
"By choosing what he cannot understand."
Aarav closed his eyes.
He thought of the Archive.
The storm.
His almost-name.
The Watcher's mark.
The river whispering a future he hadn't claimed.
And then he realized something:
The parallel was strength without connection.
Identity without vulnerability.
Survival without selflessness.
What he couldn't understand—
was care.
Aarav stepped forward.
The parallel's smirk sharpened.
"Ready to break?"
Aarav shook his head.
"No."
His voice was calm.
"I'm ready to choose."
The parallel frowned.
Aarav lifted his hand—not to strike, but to place his palm flat against his own chest.
"I don't abandon parts of myself," he said softly.
"Not anymore."
The parallel recoiled as if burned.
Aarav continued:
"And that means I don't abandon people either."
A pulse of pure resonance shot from his chest—
soft, gentle, warm.
The parallel screamed as the resonance hit him, not destroying him, not overpowering him—
rewriting him.
His body flickered—
once,
twice—
and then splintered into dust and light, dissolving into the Vale.
Aarav staggered.
Meera caught him.
The King caught his other arm.
Amar exhaled shakily.
Arin lowered his staff.
Older Aarav sank to the ground in relief.
The boy whispered:
"You… rewrote him."
Aarav nodded.
"I chose differently."
The Vale hummed.
New light formed ahead.
The next path opened.
Aarav did too.
"He didn't voice the want, but the world felt the shift anyway."