The world fractured.
Aran staggered beneath the force of Rhen's strike. The obsidian blade of the Ash Crown's will clashed with his own golden fire, and the ground beneath them split like parchment. Towers collapsed in distant roars, flames licked the heavens, and ash consumed all color.
Aran's thoughts swirled—not with tactics, but with memory. Elira's hand in his. Her laughter under the starlight. Her absence during the years of silence. He had chased power to protect her, but she had never needed a savior. She had needed a partner.
Rhen pressed his advantage. "You'll never understand, Aran. She needs someone who will shape the world to protect her—not someone who lets it burn."
Aran gritted his teeth. "You don't shape the world with fire. You shape it with faith."
And with a final roar, he pushed back, summoning every ounce of light the Emberthorn had granted him.
Suddenly, golden fire exploded from the Spire's heart.
Rhen faltered.
Aran turned—eyes widening.
Elira.
She stood in the ruined courtyard, golden light cascading from her palm, the Flamewell behind her blazing like a second sun. Her body trembled, veins aglow, the mark on her hand pulsing like a living star.
"You're both wrong," she whispered, voice echoing through the city. "I don't need power or protection. I need peace."
The golden light surged.
Rhen screamed.