The sigil burned into the ice where it landed, crackling with arcane heat. Aran stared at it, the symbol from his childhood stories—a forgotten order called the Flamebound, rumored to serve neither king nor god, only destiny itself.
The rider dismounted with fluid grace, his face partially hidden beneath a silver-etched helm. "You were marked by her, weren't you?" he asked.
Aran nodded slowly. "She gave me the Oathbrand. I didn't understand it then."
"You will. If you truly want to find her, you'll need to remember what she gave you. Not just love... but power."
Aran's thoughts turned inward, to the day Elira touched his brow and whispered the ancient vow. A surge of warmth spread through him even now, though it had been years. He had dismissed it as a lover's gesture—but he had been wrong. Elira had always seen more than he could.
"Where is she?" Aran demanded.
The rider paused, then turned toward the northern peaks. "Imprisoned in the Ruins of Vareth. A curse binds her there. She won't survive another moon cycle unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you awaken the Flame within. The true fire of your bloodline."
Aran drew a slow breath, steadying his resolve. The promise in his eyes had never faded—but now, it had purpose.
"Then teach me."
The rider's smile was cold. "The path begins with pain."