The visions faded, but their weight lingered.
Elira steadied herself, her hand never leaving Aran's. The chamber began to shift—stone grinding against stone, revealing a stairway hidden beneath the crown's dais. It spiraled downward into darkness untouched by time.
Aran raised his sword. "We go together."
She nodded. "The origin lies below. That's where the Crown was born. Where the Flame was stolen."
The descent was slow, the air thick with heat and memory. Arcane symbols lit as they passed—runes older than any kingdom, etched by hands no longer remembered.
Finally, they reached the bottom.
A vast cavern opened before them. At its heart burned a living pyre—a tree made of flame and crystal, its branches reaching skyward, its roots embedded in black stone.
Elira gasped. "The Emberthorn."
Aran stared in awe. "It's alive."
A voice echoed through the cavern—not male, not female, not human. "So you have come, Flamebound… and Keeper of Memory."
The flame-tree pulsed.
"You seek to rewrite what was fated. But fire does not forget. It consumes."
Aran stepped forward. "Then let it remember us not as tyrants. But as those who chose differently."
The Emberthorn's branches swayed. A single ember drifted down, hovering before Aran's chest.
"If you would bear this burden, your flame must be unbound. No more visions. No more safety. Only truth."
He looked to Elira.
"I trust you," she whispered.
Aran touched the ember.
And everything went white.