The sky was clear when Eryon departed Solaria Primus.
The flames of the capital had left their mark on him—burns that didn't scar the skin, but reshaped the soul. He rode with Serana Vael and a small escort, no imperial banners, no grand announcement. Just a boy returning to the place where it all began.
The Academy gates loomed ahead, unchanged. Their stone worn by time and generations, but still standing tall like sentinels of destiny.
Eryon paused at the threshold.
"I thought it would feel smaller," he murmured.
Serana dismounted beside him. "The world didn't shrink. You grew."
Students watched from balconies and practice yards as the famed Flamebound returned. Whispers followed him down the stone halls—some in awe, some in envy.
Kael and Ryn were waiting near the central fountain.
"Look what the fire dragged in," Kael grinned.
"Still alive," Ryn added. "That's something."
Eryon laughed, clasping their arms in greeting.
They led him to the upper dorms, where a room had been prepared—a room too quiet for a place so heavy with history.
That night, as he lay awake staring at the ceiling, Eryon felt the silence press in.
He wasn't alone.
But not in the way he once knew.
High above the campus, hidden among the towers, Valen Virellius stood in the shadows, his eyes never leaving Eryon's window.
He had followed the Flamebound through winding roads and imperial politics. Now, he watched over him in the cradle of his beginnings.