A metallic tang coated Roshir’s tongue, thick and acrid. He choked, a spasm racking his chest, and lurched forward, emptying the contents of his stomach onto grit-dusted flagstones. Blood, scarlet and startling, laced the bile. His vision swam, a kaleidoscope of pain and disorientation. This wasn't the searing agony of the Glass-Rift blade that had bisected his heart, nor the comforting void of death he’d expected. This was a dull, persistent ache in bones that felt too light, too brittle. He tried to push himself up, his muscles protesting with a whine. He was alive. But this wasn't his body. “Get up, you useless lump!” a voice roared, sharp and familiar. A heavy boot slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a wheeze. “We have an incursion!” Roshir barely registered the pain. His head snapped up. Looming over him was the unmistakable, prismatic horror of an ambush beast, its multifaceted carapace gleaming like polished quartz, six glass-sharp limbs scything through the air. It was far too close. Its primary ocular cluster, a swirling vortex of cobalt light, fixed on his throat. He scrambled back, adrenaline a bitter rush. The beast lunged, a high-pitched shriek of grinding mineral echoing in the cramped alleyway. Instinct, honed by decades of battle, screamed for him to draw his twin blades, to meet the charge with practiced ferocity. But his hands fumbled, finding only empty air, and his body was a stranger’s, weak and uncoordinated. He was a puppet with severed strings. “Tiraz! Be useful for once!” The same voice, dripping with contempt, commanded. A powerful shove from behind sent him sprawling directly into the beast's path. His head cracked against the stone. Pain exploded behind his eyes, but it was the realization that truly stunned him: that kick, that voice, that name. Zandir. And he, Roshir, was now Tiraz, the despised buffer, the expendable decoy. The bladed foreleg descended, aimed squarely at his chest. His death. Again. But not *his* death. This body, Tiraz’s body, was frail, insignificant. Yet, even as he braced for the impact, his awareness expanded beyond the immediate danger. There, a few paces away, a novice student, no older than Niravi, tripped over a loose stone as a smaller skitterer detached from the main terror, scuttling toward her. His original death had been for nothing. But this… this was different. He was Roshir. And Roshir did not let innocents fall. Time seemed to stretch, a shimmering membrane. His new body screamed in protest, but the ingrained habit of protecting others, a fatal flaw that had often risked his own meticulous plans, overruled everything. With a desperate surge of borrowed strength, he twisted, abandoning any attempt to save himself. He extended a trembling hand, focusing not on the towering monstrosity above him, but on the fallen student. A faint, shimmering barrier, barely visible, sprang into existence around the freshman. It wasn't the sturdy, defensive ward of a skilled Shield-Aura, but a quick, desperate flicker, a translucent petal of protective energy. It was just enough. The Shard-Spitter struck the ward with a sharp *crack*, its translucent mandibles failing to penetrate the fragile magic. The skitterer recoiled, momentarily stunned. [Node Unlocked: Whispering Aegis (Rank F)] A silent, ethereal star chart bloomed in the corner of his vision, a constellation of dimly glowing points. One node, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark, ignited. *Whispering Aegis*. A beginner's shield, barely a memory from his earliest training, but a memory nonetheless. His system. It was real. And it was responding. His focus snapped back to the colossal terror above him. It had paused, its multi-faceted eye now scanning, perhaps sensing the shift in energy. He knew this monster. He knew its weakness. But he had no blades, no combat Aura. What he had was a brief, disorienting moment of clarity. His eyes darted to a discarded iron pipe, gleaming dully in the dust. Too heavy for this body. Too slow. “Blast it, Tiraz, are you going to lie there all day?!” Zandir’s voice was closer now, accompanied by the whistle of air. A spear, gleaming with offensive Aura, sliced past Roshir’s ear, impacting the beast's flank. Not its weak point, but enough to draw its attention away from the freshman. The monstrosity hissed, a sound like grinding gravel, and spun to face Zandir, who stood grinning, chin raised. This was the Zandir he remembered. The Zandir who always managed to appear at the opportune moment, taking credit for others’ sacrifices. A cold, hard kernel of rage settled in Roshir’s gut, pushing aside the fear and pain. The memory of his true body, the body of Roshir, impaled on a Glass-Rift blade, flickered. Niravi’s face, sweet and innocent, bloomed in his mind. He pushed himself up, his limbs aching. The prowler, distracted by Zandir’s posturing, exposed its cobalt ocular cluster for a fraction of a second. Zandir, ever the showman, wound up for a dramatic finishing blow, completely missing the true opening. Roshir, still dazed, still frail, saw it. He couldn’t fight. But he could *assist*. With a grunt, he kicked out, not at the monster, but at a loose rock. It skittered across the flagstones, a tiny, almost insignificant distraction. But it was enough. The beast's primary eye twitched, following the movement, exposing a sliver of its vulnerable quartz core. Zandir’s spear, intended for a flashy strike, instead found purchase in that newly revealed weakness. The fiend shrieked, a deafening crash of fracturing mineral, and exploded into a shower of iridescent dust and jagged splinters. The alleyway fell silent, save for the gasps of the relieved students. Roshir stared at a particularly large shard that had embedded itself in the wall. His reflection, distorted and fragmented, stared back. A pale, angular face, framed by dark, unruly hair. Eyes that held a weariness far beyond their apparent youth. Not Roshir’s face, not his strong, hawkish features. This was Tiraz. Frail. Despised. His gaze drifted to the shard’s surface, a faint date shimmering within the vitreous depth: `14th of Lumos, 712 CY`. Six months. Six months before the Winter Rift. Six months before Niravi’s death. “A magnificent strike, wouldn’t you agree?” Zandir’s voice boomed, shattering the moment. He strode over, a triumphant grin plastered across his face, his foot casually nudging a scattered mineral fragment. “Another rift-beast vanquished by the Chosen One! Good work, Tiraz, acting as my… distraction.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the trembling novices before settling back on Roshir, cold and imperious. “Now, clean my boots. They’re dusty from all that fighting.”

The Glass Decoy