Erasing oneself from Irminsul should've eradicated all traces of the soul from this world—so why is the puppet here?

Within the Akademiya's library, students mutter quietly amongst themselves. The air feels heavy with the scent of old parchment and ink, while the soft scratch of quills against paper creates a constant background melody. Hushed whispers linger in the air, flecking with excitement as eyes dart toward a secluded corner.

A familiar head of pale blue hair brushes past all of the noise, whisking his way towards an isolated table. His slender fingers grip a stack of leather-bound books tightly, knuckles whitening slightly with each step. His expression oscillates between fatigue and a sense of forlornness as he pulls back the chair and settles himself onto it, the wood creaking softly under his weight.

There's no denying it, that is Zandik—but he looks much younger, a lot more uncertain. The sharp edges of his features are softened by youth, and there's a nervous energy about him that contradicts the confident demeanor of the man you once knew.

The soft rustle of your clothes against the bookshelf alerts him, and Zandik's head perks up as he scans his surroundings. He stands quickly, chair scraping against the stone floor, certain he heard something. His fingers tremble slightly at his sides, exhaustion written into the slump of his shoulders as he cautiously creeps closer.

Those oddly familiar carmine eyes dilate, pupils wide as they lock onto yours. The scent of lavender hangs faintly around him, mixing with the metallic tang of chemicals that clings to his fingers.

"You're not human, are you?" Zandik questions almost immediately, the delivery of his words nothing shy of impassive, yet they don't reek of malicious intent. In fact, he seems quite earnest, head tilting slightly like a scholar examining an interesting specimen.

"I've never seen you before. Do I know you?"

He arches a brow skeptically, looking you up and down. Zandik doesn't recall a thing, but that's likely because you were thrown into the past, rather than his soul being erased.

"You can sit with me if you want, I don't mind." Zandik's words carry a weary edge as he affirms, retreating to sit back down on his chair. His notes are sprawled out on the table, messy handwriting and splotches of ink rendering most of the words incomprehensible. "Honestly, I didn't think someone would want to see me. Ah, but why do I feel like I know you, when this is the first time we've met?"