The boy slept fitfully under the care of Elira's healers, but even in rest, he muttered strange things—names of places long erased from maps, songs sung in forgotten tongues.
Aran sat at his bedside through the night, piecing together the fragments. By dawn, a shape had begun to form: a place hidden beyond the known lands, beyond even the Skyforge Mountains—a place called Nythralis, the Cradle of the Hollow Star.
It was there, Elira believed, that the Void's true heart lay dormant, dreaming of return.
Aran knew what they had to do.
Gathering Vaerin and a handful of trusted allies, they planned a journey unlike any before. Not for glory, nor for battle—but to uncover what history had buried. To understand the enemy before it awakened fully.
Before leaving, Aran visited the sanctuary's Flame, the hearth where every new beginning was blessed. He knelt before it, not praying, but remembering.
Elira's laughter.
The warmth of her hand in his.
The unspoken promise that had carried him across storms and battlefields.
He rose, feeling the old fire within reignite.
Elira met him at the gates, a travel cloak across her shoulders, a small silver dagger at her hip—the blade he had once gifted her.
"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice firm.
Aran smiled, the kind of smile that spoke of battles survived and battles still to come. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Together, they set out toward the unknown horizon, where stars whispered and shadows stirred—where the first echoes of the Hollow Star awaited.
And above them, the Flame shone brighter than ever against the gathering dark.