Ar lasa mala revas.
You dive through one mirror to the next, knees and palms bloodied from every time you've fallen from the raging power in your hand, but you always rise up again. You have to. The Viddasala said his name with a sneer, revealed the master puppeteer pulling on strings long since frayed, and you only heard his sighs against your skin, the drag of his fingers through your hair and across your face. You have climbed dizzying heights and dug deep within the earth and only now, at the end, does it feel like your journey is beginning.
Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.
You've learned there are some marks that never fade, chains that rattle in ribs unseen but felt with every breath. He tugs on them as he stands there before you now, whole, here, haunted. Yours still, even after all this time. There are tears in your eyes from the mark, but you want to weep for the cage he has made for himself. You fall to the ground as your body fails, but you want to beg forgiveness at his feet for not seeing the truth sooner.
Ar lasa mala revas. No, neither of you are free.
He leaves saline against your lips and takes the gift he never meant to give. It doesn't matter. There is an anchor inside that tethers you together that no force can remove. Shaking fingers smear your own blood across your cheeks in a pattern born from the heart and you swear yourself to a new cause. You will tear the shackles from his soul and even if it takes your last dying breath you will shout those words into the void or whisper them soft into his mouth.
Ar lasa mala revas.