The moon above Gizana bled red, casting its ominous hue over rooftops slick with dew and soot.
Aaron stood alone atop the estate, boots firm against the cold tiles. The air still trembled from the aftermath of fire—his own, and another's. Down below, the city lay in breathless silence, its people whispering of omens, twin suns, and a prince who cast no shadow.
But Aaron no longer cared for whispers.
Because now, he knew.
The fire inside him had a name.
And once, that name had ruled.
---
He sensed Kain's presence before the man even spoke. A familiar pull in the air, like the weight of memory resurfacing.
"I knew you'd come here," came Kain's voice from behind him, quiet but firm.
Aaron didn't turn. His eyes remained on the red-streaked sky, still glowing faintly with residual heat.
Kain stepped out from the stairwell, his ash-gray robes billowing softly in the breeze. His silver eyes, usually sharp with purpose, looked wearier than usual.
"You always found your way up high when something inside you cracked," Kain said, almost wistfully.
Aaron's voice, when it came, was cold and direct.
"Why didn't you tell me the full truth?" he asked. "That I'm not just the seal… but the last piece of him?"
Kain leaned casually against a chimney, folding his arms.
"Because if you'd known too soon," he said, "he would've awakened faster. Doubt is the gate. Regret is the key."
Blue flame kindled in Aaron's palm, steady and soundless.
"And now that he's awake?" he asked.
Kain reached into his coat and drew out a small tablet of black stone, veins of red flickering faintly across its surface.
"Now," he said, "you have two choices: chain him again… or become him."
---
The obsidian tablet pulsed in Kain's hand. Ancient glyphs glided across its face, glowing with a soft fire—symbols older than the kingdom of Maro, written in the forgotten language of the First Flame.
Aaron stepped forward, his fingers brushing the stone.
The moment contact was made, a jolt surged through him—like his entire body had become a conduit for something ancient. And then came the visions.
Not fragmented, as they had been before, but clear:
A war between princes, where fire was spilled instead of blood.
A cradle wrapped in binding runes.
Two infants—one burning, one bound.
A ritual interrupted. A prophecy unfinished.
> "When fire forgets its name, the sky will burn to remember."
Aaron staggered back, gasping for breath, the echoes of the vision still rattling through his skull.
"You were never meant to survive," Kain murmured, voice softer now. "But you did."
Aaron swallowed, his throat dry. "Then what does that make me?"
Kain met his gaze.
"Inheritance," he said. "And maybe... atonement."
---
Later that night, the corridors of the west wing echoed under Aaron's footsteps. The broken mirror no longer whispered his name. The blue flame in his palm had grown colder—not in weakness, but in focus. It no longer screamed. It listened.
In the library, Ashen was waiting.
He sat cross-legged among torn pages and faded diagrams, silver eyes narrowed as Aaron entered.
"You've seen him now," Ashen said simply.
Aaron nodded once.
Ashen rose to his feet with quiet grace.
"Then you saw the truth," he continued. "You were born second… but you're the one who survived."
Aaron looked away, shadows crossing his face. "He's still inside me. And the Ember-Faithful believe I'm his echo."
Ashen stepped forward, his voice low but unwavering.
"Let them believe whatever comforts them," he said. "But you and I both know—flames don't echo. They burn."
---
As Aaron lay in bed, the final embers of thought flickering through his mind, his gaze fell once more on the sigil etched into his palm.
It had changed.
What once was merely a flame had begun to crown itself—a faint, incomplete circle forming above it, glowing with a subdued orange shimmer.
And beneath it all, pulsing faintly, was something unmistakable.
A second heartbeat.
Aaron stared into the darkness, his voice no louder than a whisper.
"If I was born to bind you..." he said, "...I'll end you on my terms."