Back in Obsidian Hall, the Circle listened in silence.
I had just finished reading the last page of Vaerin Flameborne's journal. My voice trembled near the end, not because I was afraid of the words—but because I wasn't. Not anymore.
Sabine was the first to speak.
"So the legend was true," she murmured. "Vaerin sealed the Echo here. Beneath Hollowhearth."
Riven sat with her legs pulled up to her chest, staring at the floor. "Which means if the seal breaks—"
"He returns," Dorian finished grimly. "And not just as a memory."
No one argued.
We laid the journal in the center of the circle. The flame in the hearth crackled once, as if reacting to its presence. Tara traced one of the seal diagrams with her fingertip.
"This wasn't just a prison," she said. "It was a warning. Look."
She flipped back to a middle page. On it was a diagram of the seal—seven lines converging around a central ring. Each line bore a name.
"Seven guardians," Felix said, eyes narrowing. "But only six names are legible."
I leaned forward. My heart dropped.
One of the names was mine.
Elira of Hollowhearth.
Bound to Flame, bearer of the Ring. Final spark.
"But this journal is centuries old," I said. "How—how could it name me?"
"It couldn't," Elina replied. "Unless Vaerin saw something we haven't."
Or unless he left the journal for me to find.
The thought crawled up my spine like ice.
Later that night, while the others slept, I sat alone by the Obsidian Hall hearth. The ring pulsed faintly on my finger—steady, warm, alive. I held it up to the firelight, watching how it shimmered with shifting embers inside the stone.
"You've known all along, haven't you?" I whispered.
The flame in the hearth flickered in answer. Just once.
Behind me, a quiet voice spoke.
"You've changed."
I turned. It was Asher.
He stepped forward, arms crossed, his gaze intense. "When I first saw you, you looked scared. Uncertain. Now…" He glanced down at the journal beside me. "Now you carry his legacy."
"I don't want to," I admitted. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one does," he said softly. "But the fire doesn't choose lightly."
There was a long silence. Then I asked him something that had been burning in the back of my mind since the moment I saw the burning-crowned figure.
"Asher... have you seen him?"
His expression changed—just for a second. A flicker of pain.
"Yes," he said. "Once. Years ago."
I waited, but he didn't elaborate.
So I just nodded. That was enough.
The next morning, we gathered the names from the seal—six of them, plus mine. We would find their descendants, if they existed. Or their remnants. Their magic. Their stories.
Because to rebuild the seal, we would need more than knowledge.
We would need the fire of those who came before.
And maybe, if we were lucky—
Their forgiveness.