The church groaned as the wind pushed against its broken walls, sending trails of ash across the floor.
Lucien Morrow stepped closer, his body little more than shape and smoke. Every movement left faint scorch marks on the stone.
Luke's first instinct was to shield Iris. He could feel her trembling behind him, but there was something else too—heat radiating from her skin, faint and rhythmic, like a heartbeat trying to sync with the burned man's.
Lucien's eyes, pale gold and rimmed in black, flicked between them. "So she carried me through the fire after all. The flame never dies—it only waits for a new memory to wear."
Luke's voice was tight. "What are you?"
Lucien smiled faintly, the burned flesh around his mouth cracking. "The beginning."
He moved closer, no sound from his steps. "Centuries ago, before your house ever stood, people here worshiped the Everburn. A spirit that traded life for remembrance. Every century, it takes a vessel to carry its heart—a living archive of every soul it consumed. I was the first."
Iris's eyes widened. "And Emma?"
"Your Emma," Lucien said softly, "was its last. Until you."
"I'm not her," Iris whispered.
"You are what remains of her—what the fire saved when it took everything else."
Luke shook his head. "That's impossible. She died. I saw—"
Lucien turned sharply, his voice suddenly sharp. "You saw her body burn, yes. But the fire never kills what it loves."
He raised a blackened hand toward Iris, and the faint gold light beneath her skin flared brighter. "The heart of the flame beats in you now. You can hear it, can't you? The whispers in the mirrors. The dreams."
She nodded, helplessly. "Every night."
Lucien's burned features softened. "Then the Everburn is waking again. And it wants to finish what it started."
Luke's voice was quiet. "Why tell us this? Why not just end it?"
Lucien looked almost sad. "Because I tried. I've burned myself a hundred times and still I rise. The fire won't let go until the vessel chooses to end it willingly."
Iris took a step back. "How?"
He reached into the folds of his coat and drew out a small, warped mirror—the glass rippling like water. "You return its heart to where it was born. To Ashmere Hill. The flame's memory lives in that soil."
Luke felt the blood drain from his face. "That place was destroyed."
"Not to the fire," Lucien said quietly. "Nothing ever is."
The mirror in his hand began to glow, the same gold-red shimmer that had haunted them both. He pressed it into Iris's palm. "When the heart calls, follow the light. But be warned—if you falter, it will burn through you as it did me."
Iris stared down at the mirror. For a moment, her reflection stared back with Emma's eyes.
Then Lucien's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Do not trust the light too much. It lies as beautifully as love."
He stepped backward, his body breaking apart into smoke. His voice echoed one last time as he faded into the air.
"The fire remembers its own."
The church fell silent.
Luke turned to Iris. "Are you okay?"
She nodded weakly, clutching the mirror to her chest. "We have to go back. To where it all began."
Luke looked out the cracked window, to the horizon glowing faintly orange through the fog.
"Ashmere Hill," he said quietly. "The fire's waiting."