Caela didn't speak for a long time.
Her gaze never left Raen's. Her people stood still, barely breathing, eyes shifting between him and the sword on his back.
The fire crackled, but no warmth reached the circle.
> "Words are easy," Caela finally said.
"Especially from the lips of the dead."
Raen said nothing.
He let the silence sit. Let the weight of it land.
She nodded slowly.
> "If you want us to follow you, Raen Val'torren… you'll need more than fire and memory."
> "You'll need to bleed for it."
---
At dawn, she brought him to the cliff above the Broken Choir's hidden camp — a windswept ledge that overlooked a ruined stretch of valley, dotted with broken trees and bones older than kingdoms.
Dareth followed, grumbling and half-awake, but alert.
There were a dozen others there too — some masked, others burned beyond recognition. Survivors. Fighters. Ghosts.
At the center of the circle stood an old man in robes woven from chainmail and scorched scripture — Jollen, the camp's lorekeeper.
His voice was dry like dust.
> "Do you know the name of this place?" he asked Raen.
Raen shook his head.
> "It's called the Cradle of Flames," Jollen said.
"It's where the First Choir was born."
"And where they killed their own to ascend."
The wind howled.
> "We don't test strength here," Caela said beside him.
"We test will."
She gestured forward.
Down the slope, a cluster of runes glowed faintly around a pit of embers — almost cold to the eye, but the air above them shimmered with heat.
> "You want to lead?" she said.
"Then walk through the fire that remembers."
> "No protection. No blade. No magic."
Raen stepped forward.
> "What does it do?"
Jollen spoke:
> "It strips away all lies. All illusions. All masks you wear — even the ones you don't know about."
> "You walk out changed. Or not at all."
---
Dareth grabbed Raen's shoulder.
> "You don't have to prove anything to them."
Raen looked at him and smiled.
> "I'm not doing it for them."
He unstrapped his sword, handed it to Dareth, and stepped barefoot toward the flame.
---
The first step was warmth.
The second — pain.
By the third, the world peeled away.
---
Suddenly, he wasn't in the valley anymore.
He was standing in a mirror of himself — a hollow void where sky didn't exist and the only light came from within.
A figure stood across from him — cloaked in flickering memory, eyes golden, face identical to his own.
> "Why are you here?" the figure asked.
Raen clenched his fists.
> "Because the world erased me."
The figure smiled — sad, amused.
> "No. That's not the real reason."
---
Flames danced around him — not burning his skin, but his past.
He saw it:
Himself kneeling in chains before the Arc Keepers.
Dareth screaming as they erased his name.
Caela striking down her own commander to protect civilians — and getting condemned for it.
Pain flooded his chest.
And then — the one he never wanted to remember.
A woman.
Her eyes. Her smile.
Her hand reaching for his.
> "Don't forget me."
---
He dropped to his knees.
The fire scorched his soul.
> I failed them all…
---
The mirror self spoke again.
> "So why are you still standing?"
Raen breathed.
One breath.
Two.
Then he stood.
> "Because someone has to remember."
The fire exploded.
Not outward — inward.
And the void shattered like glass.
---
When Raen stepped out of the Cradle, he was steaming, shirt scorched, knees shaking.
But his eyes…
His eyes were steady.
Alive.
---
Caela met his gaze, unreadable.
Then, silently, she dropped to one knee.
One by one, the Broken Choir followed.
Even Jollen.
Even the ones who had doubted.
Dareth grinned wide, arms crossed, sword still slung on his back.
> "Told you he's built different."
---
Caela stood and placed a hand on Raen's shoulder.
> "Then it begins."
> "The Pale Choir has started purging border towns again. They're searching for others like us. Silencing names that slipped through the cracks."
> "We fight back now. We protect them. We bring in those still lost."
Raen nodded.
> "We don't run anymore."
> "We remember."
---
And across the horizon — unseen, but surely watching — the Pale Choir turned their gaze.
White-robed figures walked through fireless fields.
Their voices were quiet.
Their hands were clean.
But their weapons were memory knives, and their prayers were erasures.
And they had seen the flame rekindle.
---
The war for remembrance had begun.