The sky over the sanctuary turned crimson before the first alarm was raised.
Aran stood beneath the archway when the wind shifted. The Flame inside him flickered—a sensation he hadn't felt since the Hollow Star's defeat. Not fear, but warning.
Ren ran toward him from the west ridge. "There's someone on the horizon. Just one."
Aran climbed the tower stairs two at a time. Through the spyglass, he saw a figure in a silver cloak, walking calmly up the path—barefoot, hood drawn, staff in hand. But it was the light around them that struck him.
Golden. Familiar. Echoing Elira's Flame.
Vaerin joined him at the window. "That's not her, is it?"
"No. But it's something connected to her. Strongly."
The figure stopped just beyond the outer gate and raised their hand. From the staff, a surge of light erupted—not an attack, but a signal. A beacon.
Aran felt the connection immediately.
Elira was calling him.
But it was splintered, as if her voice came from beneath water. He heard fragments:
—not safe—crown awakens—beneath it all—Aran, don't trust—
Then silence.
Aran turned to Vaerin. "Ready the wardens. I ride before dusk."
He looked once toward the capital, now a distant glow beneath the twilight.
Wherever Elira was, whatever she had found, it had stirred something ancient.
And once again, Aran would walk through fire to keep his promise.