Die. Respawn. Repeat.

The dagger the mother threw at me clatters to the ground, useless; the barrier I called up dissipates back into raw Firmament. She stares at us, her eyes still burning Firmament, but the more I look at them the more I see them for what they really are.

Cracks.

Cracks that run from her eyes and down her face like glowing tears. She's an echo of an echo—an imprint left behind by countless copies of countless people put through the same tragedy over and over again—but that fact makes her no less real. The emotions that made her are all visible in the color of her Firmament.

Red for blood and anger. Blue for misery and tragedy, swirled through her form. Powerful because she's the culmination of so much that has happened, though still not beyond me.

And yet for all that power... trapped.

"Just let us through," the mother pleads. "Don't make us do this."

The cracks on her face bleed blue, trickling down to her neck. She's following a script, not actually reacting to me.

I respond anyway. I can't help it.

"I would if I could."