He stood slowly.
His reflection stood with him.
Argolaith looked at the tree—not down, not up, but eye to eye, as if it were a person standing across from him.
"I won't give you a memory," he said aloud.
The tree didn't respond, but the mirrored ground shimmered more brightly.
"I'll give you something better."
He stepped toward the pedestal.
"Not loss. Not absence. But presence."
He raised a hand above the bowl and closed his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, Argolaith focused—not on one moment, but on many.
He thought of Seminah, quiet and cold in the winter months.
He thought of Athos's quiet voice reading to him from brittle old pages.
He thought of the first time Kaelred called him a friend—and meant it.
He thought of Malakar's slow shift from enemy to teacher.
He thought of Thae'Zirak, immense and terrifying, folding his wings with childlike pride when praised.
He opened his mind fully.
Not to forget. Not to erase.
But to share.
