The smoke had not yet cleared when Aran reached Serwyn.
The wind had no scent anymore—only ash. Black snow drifted across the dead fields, falling gently over charred stone and scorched roots. Where laughter had once lived, silence reigned.
Aran knelt beside the well, where the bucket still smoldered. His hand brushed the wood, and it crumbled to dust.
Elira stood behind him, face pale, her fingers trembling against the hilt of her staff.
"There are no bodies," she whispered. "No screams. Nothing."
Vaerin kicked over a pile of rubble, revealing half a burned sigil etched into the stone below. "That wasn't fire. That was a message."
Aran's jaw clenched. "He's baiting me."
"No," Elira said quietly. "He's proving a point."
They found the survivors in a cave north of the village—a handful of scorched, wide-eyed souls who had escaped beneath the roots of an ancient tree when the fire came. Lyra was among them, her hands wrapped in linen, her voice barely above a whisper.
"He didn't just burn the city," she said. "He… watched. Like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted to see if someone would stop him."
Aran met her gaze. "I should have."
Lyra shook her head. "No. You still can."
Elira pulled Aran aside. "You can't walk this path with guilt as your guide. That version of you—he's not just your shadow. He believes he's saving the world."
"By destroying it?"
"No." Her voice was steady. "By becoming what he thinks you are too weak to be."
Aran turned to the horizon, where smoke still smeared the sky like a wound.
"Then I'll show him what strength really is."
Vaerin threw his cloak over his shoulder. "Good. Because according to the scouts, he's moving east—toward the Vault of Varyn."
Aran narrowed his eyes. "That's where the Flamebound were born."
"Exactly," Vaerin replied. "And it's where he plans to unmake them."
Aran stood tall, the Oathbrand igniting with a quiet fury.
"Then the Ember Path ends there. And one of us won't leave it."