Night fell, and the black flame swelled in power, nearly swallowing the golden glow. Shadows stretched like rivers through the camp.
Jin knelt beside the lantern, eyes fixed on the dark flame. His lips moved faintly—not in prayer, but in dialogue.
Ahri approached slowly. "You're listening to it."
He didn't deny it. "It speaks more plainly than your gold."
Aya stepped back, clutching her satchel. "You mean it whispers. All I hear is rot."
But Ahri crouched closer. The black flame pulsed, and in the silence she caught faint syllables. Not chaotic, not senseless. Clear. Cold. Familiar.
"You were never meant to obey. You were meant to unmake."
Ahri stiffened. The voice was her own, stripped of warmth, stripped of mercy.
She whispered, "What does it promise you, Jin?"
His jaw clenched. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "It promises me freedom."
"And the cost?"
Finally, he looked at her. His shadow towered behind him, fraying at the edges. "The cost is everything."
The flame crackled, as if approving. And for the first time, Ahri feared not what Jin heard but what she also understood.