Normally, a human mind couldn't hold onto decades of memories. Not completely.
Even the most powerful memories—the ones that shaped a person, defined their lives—faded after enough time passed.
Faces blurred. Moments dulled. Emotions softened until they no longer carried the same weight.
But Arlon remembered everything.
Everything from before the Tower.
Everything that happened inside it.
His memories were intact—uncorrupted, untouched by time. Every floor. Every breath. Every wound.
He knew it shouldn't have been possible.
Somewhere, some kind of spell or passive magic had to be anchoring his mind, freezing it at the moment he entered the Tower. A preservation of sorts.
Otherwise, remembering the days, the weeks, the years in such detail—down to the exact feeling of the cold stone beneath his hands—would have been impossible.
Still, it worked in his favor. Thanks to that strange preservation, Arlon remembered the pitch-black void he had opened his eyes in once again.
