The sky above the Valley of Flame Trees darkened—not from storm, but from prophecy.
Whispers that once drifted in secret now thundered across the ether. All who had ever heard the veil stir in their sleep, all who had once glimpsed a figure at the corner of their grief, began to gather.
Seyna and Dari, now keepers of both relics and revelations, set a beacon on the Great Hill where seven rivers met. They lit a fire using the Dreamroot bark—a sacred flame known to call forth not only the living, but the memories of the lost.
And the people came.
From lands scorched by war, from villages swallowed by the sea, from mountaintops where silence had been kept for centuries. Each carried something—a relic, a word, a story passed down in fragments.
Temi, child of Kemi's line, sang an old lullaby at the edge of the gathering:
"Sing not for the stars, but for those beneath
Who buried their names in the hush of grief."
An elder named Ishaka arrived from the desert plains, carrying the wind harp his mother claimed could speak to shadows.
From the Mistlands came Erya, who had once loved a ghost and named her daughter after the dream they shared.
They came not as strangers—but as kin bound by sorrow and wonder.
Each name was written on parchment and laid beneath the flame. Each voice, lifted in chorus, caused the flame to dance higher, crackling with light not seen since the age before division.
The flame then cracked open—splitting into seven tongues of blue fire—and from it emerged a figure cloaked in moonlight.
Not a ghost.
Not a god.
But Amira.
Or what remained of her spirit.
Not fragile. Not bound.
But whole.