The valley was quiet. Ash clung to the ruins of the ancient city, and where once shadows had ruled, sunlight now painted the stones in gold.
Mira stood on a ridge, watching the horizon. The world felt fragile—like a page waiting for words yet unwritten. Beside her, Aric leaned heavily on Edran's broken staff, the fire within him flickering softly like a lantern in the dusk.
"They'll come again," Mira said quietly. "Shadows don't die so easily."
Aric nodded, eyes fixed on the shards of the Crown resting in a pouch at his side. "I know. But I won't face them as a pawn, or a prisoner. I'll face them as myself."
Mira glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "The boy from Ashvale?"
He chuckled, though weariness weighed on him. "The boy who learned the fire doesn't own him. The one who chooses."
Silence stretched between them, filled with the gentle rustle of wind through broken stone. For the first time in years, the air carried no whispers of the Serpent. Only the sound of life returning, timid but stubborn.
Mira sheathed her sword. "Then let's walk into that dawn, Aric of Ashvale. Whatever comes next—we face it together."
The fire stirred within him, not in hunger, but in harmony. And as the first light of morning spilled across the land, Aric stepped forward, carrying not a crown, not a curse, but a promise.
The promise that even in the ashes, embers could rise.