The map was unlike any Aran had seen before.
Drawn in ink that shimmered faintly when tilted toward the sun, it revealed lands that should not exist—mountains unnamed, forests without roots, and a sea with no name. At the center of it all was a single phrase, written in a language that hadn't been spoken since before the Flamebound were born.
"Here waits the Mirror of Flame."
Aran studied it in the war chamber beneath the Spire. Vaerin stood beside him, fingers tracing the map's edge.
"This came from the ruins of Mor'Drael," Vaerin said. "Same place we found the Ash Crown's remnants. But this map wasn't meant to be found. It was hidden behind a wall of petrified bone."
Aran's brow furrowed. "And the ink?"
"Phoenix marrow. Burned into the parchment by a flame that never dies."
Elira entered, her steps slow but steady. She was pale, but her eyes were clear. "It's a path to the Origin Flame."
Aran looked up sharply. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "I saw it in the Flamewell, before I collapsed. This… Mirror of Flame… it's not a weapon. It's a reflection. Of what fire truly is. And someone's trying to reach it before we do."
Vaerin straightened. "Then we move at dawn."
Aran stood, his gauntlets glinting in the low firelight. "No. We move tonight."
He folded the map, tucking it into his cloak. "If the Origin Flame burns there, and someone corrupts it… the next war won't be for a crown."
Elira took his hand, her touch warm despite the chill in the air. "It'll be for the world itself."
And far across the Pale Map's mountains, unseen eyes opened… and smiled.