The morning light washed Valebright in gold, but Aran stood on the highest terrace of the Spire, eyes fixed on the horizon.
The city stirred below, its people waking from the long nightmare. Rhen remained in the hall of flamekeepers, deep in healing meditation. Elira rested beneath silken canopies, surrounded by blooming emberlotus, the warmth of the Flamewell still humming in her veins.
But Aran's heart remained unsettled.
He had seen something in the fire, just before the ash storm died—a flicker of darkness untouched by Elira's light. A shadow beyond the Crown's grasp. It had watched them. Waited.
Vaerin approached silently. "You felt it too."
Aran nodded. "Not part of the Crown. Older. Deeper."
Vaerin offered a sealed scroll, the wax marked with the sigil of the Ember Council. "A summons. The eastern watchtowers have gone dark. Villages beyond the Silverwood haven't sent word in weeks."
Aran didn't need to read it. He already knew.
Peace was only ever a breath between storms.
He turned back toward Elira's chamber, hesitating.
Vaerin placed a hand on his shoulder. "She'll understand. She always has."
Aran smiled faintly. "She was always the stronger flame."
And with that, he strapped on his sword, the golden fire sleeping in its core, and descended the Spire's long stairs.
A new promise burned in his eyes.
And somewhere, in a land where maps grew pale, something ancient awakened.