The instant they crossed the threshold, the world vanished in white heat.
No flame, no smoke—only a rushing sound, like wind moving through a thousand voices.
Luke felt himself falling and rising at once, weightless.
Then came light—gold and crimson, weaving around them like threads. The heart of the fire wasn't burning them; it was listening.
He could see Iris beside him, suspended in the glow, her hair drifting as if underwater. Her eyes shone, but not with fear. "It remembers everything," she whispered. "Every promise, every lie, every life it ever touched."
Luke reached for her hand. "Then it remembers us."
Their fingers met. The light flared. Images bloomed around them—moments from the night of the first fire: the vow, the panic, the door closing, the scream.
Then, for the first time, Luke saw what had really happened.
Emma—Iris—had pushed him out of the room. She had sealed the door herself to keep the fire contained. He hadn't abandoned her; she had saved him.
The realization hit him like cold air. "You… you stayed."
"I had to," she said. "Someone had to remember."
The fire's voice rolled through the light, neither male nor female.
"Then choose. Burn apart—or bind together."
Luke met her gaze. "We bind."
She smiled, tears turning to sparks. "Together, always."
They stepped closer to the heart. The light surged, folding inward until it pierced their chests, joining pulse to pulse. For a heartbeat Luke felt everything—her warmth, her sorrow, every lifetime the fire had carried. And then the voices quieted, replaced by one steady rhythm.
The chamber dimmed. The heart shrank, its glow fading from red to soft gold. The roots that held it cracked, and the air cooled.
When the smoke cleared, Luke and Iris stood on the stone floor, the pool of ash gone. The mirrors along the walls had melted into smooth, colorless glass that reflected only light—no faces, no memories.
Iris looked down at her hands; faint veins of gold traced beneath her skin, pulsing gently. "It's different now. It's… peaceful."
Luke touched the place over his heart. The same light answered there. "We ended it?"
She nodded. "No. We changed it."
The house above groaned, timbers settling like an old creature sighing. A cool wind swept through the cracks, carrying the smell of rain.
Luke took her hand, leading her toward the stairs. "Then let's leave it behind."
As they climbed, the last echo of the fire whispered through the stone—quiet, almost tender:
"The promise is kept."
When they stepped outside, the first snow of winter was falling over Ashmere Hill.
Where the house had stood, only embers glowed beneath the frost, fading slowly into silence.
Luke looked at Iris—at Emma—and saw only life reflected in her eyes.
For the first time, the fire inside them didn't hunger.
It simply burned steady.