The sanctuary blossomed, and so did the hopes of the land. Yet in the quiet hours, when mist curled over the valley and the world hushed, Aran sometimes sensed it—the faintest tremor in the Flame.
One evening, as twilight deepened into silvered darkness, a stranger arrived.
Clad in a simple traveler's cloak, the figure bore no weapon, no threat, only a message: a shard of blackened crystal and a scrap of parchment bearing three words.
"The Void wakes."
Aran turned the shard in his hand. It pulsed with a coldness alien to the warmth of the Flame, a silence that devoured sound itself. Elira, standing behind him, stiffened when her gaze touched it.
"This... is older than the Hollow Court," she whispered. "Older than the Flamebound." Aran set the shard down carefully. "Then it's time we remember: the Flame is not just light—it is the shield against darkness." Their sanctuary, their peace, their future—it all could be threatened. But Aran's eyes burned with quiet certainty as he met Elira's gaze. "Whatever comes," he said, "we'll face it. Together." Beyond the valley, in the forgotten places of the world, shadows stirred, and the stars seemed to blink a little slower, a little sadder. But in the heart of the valley, the Promise still burned.