Their son — Lioran — had not spoken since the World-Flame's rebirth.
But the flame in his chest did.
It burned with both his mother's grace and his father's fury — and something else. Something older.
At night, Lioran wandered to the edge of the rebuilt realm, staring into skies that shimmered between dimensions. One evening, he drew a circle in the dirt. A sigil neither Aran nor Elira had taught him.
"I saw this in my dreams," he said softly.
Elira knelt beside him.
"Dreams can be warnings, Lioran."
He nodded. "Or doors."
That night, stars fell — not as omens.
As messengers.