Bael stares at the reflection in his helmet, and a stranger stares back. He can't even recognize himself anymore between the sunken cheeks and missing eye. His nose is turning darker, stinging blisters spreading by the hour, a damage reminiscent of frostbite.

The helmet shakes in his quivering hand. Bael remembers sourdough in the oven, a savory aroma wafting from the cast iron. Lavender soap gracing his nostrils under an embrace. Being enveloped in a warm blanket, the clean cotton scent lulling him into a peaceful night's sleep.

The memories make him dizzy now. Bael tries to steady himself by locking onto his helmet. He pales, noticing the familiar eye looking back at him, tears threatening to spill over. He's alone now.

He clicks his tongue, annoyed at his vulnerability. A nose is useless. Bael was dependent in his youth, but not anymore.

He grits his teeth. The stinging pain in his nose finally subsides into numbness. It's time. The Dredgen is tired of death keeping him from his true potential. He will banish these memories—for good.

Bael reaches for his face, holding the bridge of his dead nose between his thumb and index finger.

CRACK!

In a quick movement, Bael snaps it from his face. The nose drops to the floor with a quiet thud. Suddenly, his palms begin to sweat, his eyes water, and nausea scalds his throat.

Scared, yet pleased, Bael smiles.