Paradox Sovereign

Scene: A Quiet Evening by the Hearth

The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor of Therion's home. Ardyn sat with his knees drawn up, his fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of spiced tea—his third that night, the warmth the only thing keeping the creeping dizziness at bay. Across from him, Therion lounged on the floor, tossing a dagger into the air and letting it vanish mid-spin before it reappeared in his palm.

"You know," Ardyn said softly, watching the blade flicker in and out of existence, "most people would kill for that kind of power."

Therion snorted. "Yeah, well, most people don't realize it feels like this." He tapped his temple. "Like I'm a puzzle missing half its pieces. Every time I jump, I leave something behind. A thought. A memory. A me."

Ardyn exhaled, his vision swimming slightly at the edges. He pressed his fingers to his temple, willing the faintness to pass. His own curse—a body that betrayed him at random, limbs going numb, consciousness slipping like sand through fingers—was quieter than Therion's, but no less cruel.

"You ever think there's a way to fix it?" Ardyn asked.

Therion's grin was sharp, but his eyes were distant. "Fix it? Nah. But I've heard stories." He leaned forward, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones. "They say the Covenant's gifts aren't just curses. They're tests. And if you pass..."

Ardyn raised an eyebrow. "If you pass?"

Therion's dagger vanished again, but this time, it didn't reappear. Instead, the air around his hand shivered, like heat off a desert road. "Then you stop being the Sundered," he murmured. "And start being the Storm."

Ardyn's breath caught. The room tilted—just a fraction—and he gripped the armrest to steady himself. "You're saying there's a way to turn the cost into strength?"

Therion shrugged, but there was something restless in the motion, something hungry. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just another way to break." He glanced at Ardyn, taking in the pallor of his skin, the way his fingers trembled around the cup. "You okay?"

Ardyn waved him off. "Just the usual. My body's decided it's had enough of today." He forced a smirk. "Unlike you, I don't get to teleport away from it."

Therion's expression darkened. "You think I'd trade?"

"Wouldn't you?"

For a long moment, Therion was silent. Then, quietly: "No."

The fire popped between them. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the trees.

Ardyn let his head fall back against the chair, exhaustion pressing in. "So what's the plan, then? Keep jumping until there's nothing left?"

Therion's grin returned, wild and bright. "Nah. I'm gonna own it." He flicked his wrist, and the dagger reappeared—not in his hand, but hovering in the air beside him, as if held by an invisible copy of himself. "If the Covenant wants me scattered, fine. I'll be everywhere at once."

Ardyn watched the blade hover, a ghost of Therion's will. A shiver ran down his spine—not from his own weakness this time, but from the sheer, terrifying possibility in Therion's words.

"Sounds like a good way to go insane," he said lightly.

Therion winked. "Yeah, well. Insanity's overrated."

And just like that, he was gone—not with a pop, but a lingering echo, as if he'd never fully been there at all.

Ardyn stared at the empty space where he'd sat, the tea in his hands gone cold.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if Therion had ever really been there—or if he'd just been talking to another fragment, another piece left behind.

And if so—how many were still out there?