Sera and Sandra both froze in place, visibly taken aback by Dora's words. There was something terrifyingly calm in the way she spoke—something that made both of them go silent.
Dora kept her eyes fixed on Aether, her face hard, unreadable. "Can you... take it?" she repeated slowly, her tone dipping into something darker, more dangerous with every word.
Aether met her gaze, and for a moment, the world narrowed around them. His expression twisted in anguish as if the very air around him grew heavier. He understood what she was asking of him. No riddles, no hidden meanings—He fucking got it.
"I—I can't," he finally whispered, shaking his head. His voice cracked under the pressure, and his eyes dropped. "I just... can't. I've already spilt enough blood," he muttered and inwardly added, 'My hands... they've taken too much from the ones I love already.' His fingers trembled, as if the guilt was physically eating at him.
