The Ember Mirror
Elira walked the starlight bridge in silence, each step humming with energy. The floating temple loomed ahead, ethereal and vast, as if it had grown from the bones of forgotten gods. Its walls shimmered like moonlit waterfalls, shifting between form and reflection.
When she reached the entrance, a gust of warm wind swept around her, carrying whispers—her own voice in a hundred frightened tones:
"You're not strong enough."
"You'll fail."
"They will all fall because of you."
She flinched, but kept walking. The lion's words echoed in her mind: "Only by walking through the fire can the Light born awaken."
Inside, the temple pulsed with living light. Pillars of crystal spiraled toward the ceiling like frozen lightning. At its center stood the Ember Mirror—tall as a tree, framed in golden flame, its surface swirling like molten glass.
As Elira stepped closer, it called her name—not aloud, but in her thoughts, like a memory long buried.
"Come closer, child of the Flame," it whispered.
She stepped to the edge of its light.
The mirror flared, then stilled. Her reflection formed. But it wasn't her.
Not fully.
The girl in the glass looked older—twelve, maybe thirteen—with glowing eyes and a long braid of starlit hair. Power danced on her fingertips like embers. A crown of flame hovered above her head. She looked regal. Fearless.
Elira reached out a hand.
The reflection did the same.
But just before their fingers met, the mirror rippled—and twisted.
The image darkened. Her reflection shifted into something else.
A version of herself twisted by shadow—eyes black and hollow, a cruel smile curling her lips. She wore armor made of thorns and smoke. And behind her, the world burned.
"You think you're the hero?" the shadow-Elira mocked. "You're just a scared little girl who misses her mother."
"I am not afraid of you," Elira said, voice shaking.
"Oh no?" the reflection taunted. "Then why do you flinch every time someone believes in you? Why did you run from the whispers in the village? Why did you hesitate to come here?"
Tears welled in Elira's eyes.
"You'll fail," the dark version said. "And when you do, the Guardian will fall. And the world will belong to Malakar."
"No," Elira whispered.
"Say it louder."
"No!" she shouted.
The mirror cracked—but only slightly.
"You are not me," she declared, stepping forward. "You are my doubt. My fear. But I won't let you lead."
The dark reflection laughed—but it was fading.
"I am Elira of Liora," she said, stronger now. "I am the last Light born. And I choose the fire."
With those words, she stepped into the mirror.
The world exploded.
Flames surrounded her—not burning, but transforming. They peeled away everything false. Her fear. Her hesitation. Even her memories—every lie she'd told herself. All of it melted in the fire of truth.
And when the flames died down…
She stood taller.
Her white dress had become robes of silver and gold, woven with symbols of the old Guardians. A faint flame hovered above her open palm, steady and bright. Her eyes glowed with ancient light—not blinding, but warm. Pure.
Elira was not the same.
She had awakened.
The temple pulsed with light, and from the mirror's remains rose a single golden seed—the final Light speed. She cupped it in her hand, and it sank into her chest, where it vanished with a soft, resonant hum.
Then she turned and walked back across the bridge.