Silence fell like snowfall.
The fire had vanished—not extinguished, but laid to rest. The Mirror of Flame stood quiet and still, no longer burning, but reflecting clearly for the first time. Its surface showed only the chamber, cracked and battle-worn, and the three figures who had survived its judgment.
Aran knelt before it, breath heavy, the Emberthorn's light retreating into the core of his being. His body ached. His soul felt… lighter. Not empty, but full in a way fire rarely allowed.
Behind him, Elira placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's done."
He turned his head. "For now."
Vaerin stood at the edge of the platform, looking down into the dark that surrounded the Mirror's dais. "The Watcher's gone. But something tells me this place… it's not just going to sit quiet forever."
Elira nodded. "The Mirror was awakened. It chose. And now it sleeps. But even dreams can stir things in the world."
Aran rose and approached the Mirror one final time. Its surface shimmered gently under his gaze, but there was no trial, no vision. Just the quiet glow of potential.
"I didn't just see who I was," he said. "I saw who I could become. And I don't want to lose that."
Elira smiled faintly. "Then don't."
Vaerin cleared his throat. "We should go. The Pale Lands won't be stable much longer. Magic like this always echoes."
They left the chamber in silence, the map now gone, the Mirror slumbering behind them.
But far above, in a tower of wind and steel, a seer opened her eyes—eyes of sapphire and gold—and whispered to no one:
"The fire has chosen… and so now must the storm."