The obsidian coliseum trembled with the weight of history.
Aran stood at its heart, surrounded by the spectral figures of the Forgotten. They were warriors, mages, lovers, and kings—each one a soul consumed by the Hollow Star's silence, each one watching now, waiting to pass judgment.
The masked figure raised a hand. "To claim truth, you must endure it. Step into memory. Let it burn you clean. A pillar of silver light erupted beneath Aran and Elira. In an instant, the world around them shattered—replaced by a swirl of memories that were not entirely their own. Aran saw himself as a child, alone in a storm, calling out for a mother who never returned. Then Elira, standing before a ruined village, her hands drenched in blood she couldn't heal. Pain lanced through them both—not physical, but deeper, soul-wounds reopened. Elira fell to her knees, gasping. "These aren't just ours... they're everyone's." The Forgotten were showing them centuries of despair. Love lost. Hope betrayed. Promises broken. Aran gritted his teeth, clenching his fists against the tide. "You think this breaks us? This is why we fight. Not because we forget—but because we remember." The Flame burst from his chest in a wave of gold and scarlet, sweeping through the coliseum. The spirits recoiled—but not in pain. In awe. Elira stood, eyes blazing with resolve. "We honor your memory. But we do not belong to your sorrow." One by one, the spirits bowed. The masked figure removed their helm, revealing a face fractured by time—a mirror of Aran's own features, but older, faded, a version of him that might have given up."You are not the end," the echo said. "You are the choice." Then it faded, leaving only silence. In the distance, the Hollow Star pulsed once. Watching and Waiting. Aran turned to Elira. "It knows we're coming." She nodded. "Then let's give it something to remember."