He thought of the rebels who had trusted him. Make it mean something.
“I don’t want to bring anyone back,” Venn said, rising. His voice cracked, but it held. “The Prize is not resurrection. It’s a choice of which loss defines me.” DV-s The Skaafin Prize
“You reject the Prize,” the Proctor said slowly, “by accepting the weight you already bear. That is… unprecedented.” He thought of the rebels who had trusted him
He thought of the lover who had left. You don’t let anyone in. His voice cracked, but it held
The glass walls rippled. Suddenly Venn was no longer in the galleries. He was back in the salt-flat village of his childhood, the day the fever took his younger sister. He watched his twelve-year-old self hold her hand as she slipped away, helpless.
“The Prize,” Vethis purred, stepping through the memory like a ghost, “is the return of one thing you have lost. A person. A moment. A piece of your soul. But to claim it, you must choose which loss you value most. And then you must relive the others.”
“The DV-s contract is binding,” Venn said. “Complete your Trials. Claim your Prize. I’ve done three already.”