Steel met flame as the corrupted guardians descended.
Aran pivoted, slashing through the first one—only to find the creature reforming midair, its molten body stitching itself back together with strands of emberlight. Its helmet cracked open, revealing a hollow skull wreathed in gold fire.
"They don't die!" Vaerin shouted, blades flashing as he cut another down, only for three more to rise from the fog.
"They're not meant to," Elira cried out. "They're ash-bound—tied to the Mirror's flame. It feeds them!"
Aran knew they couldn't win by brute force. Every strike only slowed them. Every flame they summoned only seemed to strengthen the enemy.
He had to think like the fire—not to destroy, but to transform.
"Elira!" he shouted over the roar. "What did the Flamewell show you about them?"
"They were the first! The original Flamebound, who swore never to let the Mirror fall into mortal hands." She staggered as the ground split again. "They weren't corrupted… they were bound to its will."
Aran turned, golden fire crackling up his arms. "Then we don't fight them. We free them."
He plunged his hand into the earth, summoning the Emberthorn's memory—pure flame, untainted by ambition or fear. It roared outward in a wave, not to burn, but to reveal.
The ash-bound guardians froze. Their flames faltered.
Elira stepped forward and placed her hand on the nearest one's chest. "Rest. Your watch is over."
One by one, the flames winked out, leaving only armor and silence behind.
The fog lifted.
The path to the Mirror of Flame lay ahead—lit now by a quiet, solemn glow.
But something stirred beyond it.
Not ash. Not memory.
A will. Watching.
Waiting.