The road to Valebright had never felt so long.
Aran rode fast, the wind biting, the Flame within him stirred to full alert. Each mile felt heavier—as if something unseen watched, pulling at the edges of the world.
He reached the capital by dusk on the second day. The city gates stood open, but not in welcome. No guards. No sentries. Only silence.
He dismounted, hand on the hilt of his sword, and stepped inside.
Valebright was empty—but not abandoned. Markets still full of wares. Lanterns still lit. A city paused in time.
"Aran."
The voice echoed from a shadowed alley. He turned to find a woman in black robes, her eyes rimmed with silver flame. She bowed low.
"She is beneath the Spire. In the chamber of the Crown."
"Is she safe?" he asked.
The woman hesitated. "That depends… on whether she remembers who she is."
He didn't wait for more. Through the eerily still streets, he ran toward the central spire—its tower now glowing faint violet, the same pulse he remembered from the Hollow Star.
Inside, stairs spiraled downward into shadow. The deeper he went, the colder it became. Arcane murals lined the walls—scenes of gods forgotten, and a throne untouched by time.
At the bottom, he found Elira.
Floating.
Encased in a prism of crystal and flame, her eyes closed, her lips parted as if mid-word. The crown hovered above her head, whispering—not words, but possibilities.
Aran stepped forward.
"Don't," came a voice from the dark.
A man emerged—tall, draped in star-threaded robes. "If you wake her now, she'll remember everything. And everything includes… the part she gave up to save you."
Aran raised his blade, eyes glowing gold. "Then I'll help her carry it."
And the crystal cracked.