The sanctum pulsed with low, rhythmic light.
A single obsidian mirror stood in the center of the chamber round as a moon, rimmed in jagged runes that bled shadow. Its surface, once still, now roiled with blue flame.
An awakening.
A name spoken.
A threat returned.
The Mirror whispered:
"She is lit. The phoenix's echo breathes again."
Across the black marble hall, the Elders gathered five figures draped in smokeweave robes, their faces veiled in iron masks.
Each had lived a hundred years through flamebinding.
Each had been broken by it in different ways.
And each remembered Aelira.
"It was not supposed to be possible," rasped Elder Solen, whose bones glowed faintly through his skin. "The fragment was lost. She should have burned away."
"She did," muttered Elder Kyrth, whose mask was cracked at the mouth. "But the boy remembered her. The flame doesn't forget what it loves."
A third Elder stepped forward—her voice hollow, feminine, her body faceless beneath a humming veil of stitched shadows.
"The Harbinger failed to claim her. That is… concerning."
The others tensed.
The Harbinger was not meant to fail.
It had never failed.
Solen stepped toward the mirror.
The flame in the obsidian rippled then parted, revealing an image:
Sarya standing tall in the ruins of the tower, flame in her palms, eyes like distant stars.
The Elders spoke as one:
"She has become Aelira's echo. But not her shadow."
"Worse."
"She is becoming her own fire."
A silence fell, heavy and reverent.
Then Elder Kyrth raised his hand.
"Then we activate the Sleeper."
The others turned sharply.
Even in a hall of monsters, that name held fear.
"It is not ready," Solen warned. "Its mind is fragmented."
"So was hers," Kyrth answered. "Look what it gave her."
The Elders stepped to the mirror in unison, placing their hands against its rim. Blood seeped through their palms burning, binding.
The obsidian flared, and an eye opened within the glass.
Silver. Slit-pupiled. Ancient.
And it spoke.
"You woke me early."
The Elders bowed.
"The Phoenix's Heir has risen."
The Sleeper's voice rumbled through the flame.
"Then it is time I remember what I was."
In the deep vault beneath the Order's sanctum, a cracked sarcophagus stirred.
Chains shifted.
A mouth, stitched shut for a century, began to bleed.
And a forgotten power uncurled its limbs.
Not a Harbinger.
A Rival.