Ash hung heavy in the air, clinging to the ruins like a memory that refused to fade. The once-grand hall groaned beneath the weight of magic and screams, its walls scorched and blackened by fire and rage.
Aaron moved through the haze like a shadow slipping through smoke. A steady flame glowed low in his palm—silent, precise, and completely under control. His pale blue eyes reflected not doubt, but unshakable resolve.
Beside him, Mirell kept pace. She held a short blade close, her breathing calm and measured—like the stillness before a storm.
They reached the heart of the burning hall.
There, waiting amidst the fire, stood the Captain of the Royal Guard.
But he was no longer a man.
His armor burned with cursed red flames, fused grotesquely to his flesh. The fire moved across his body like a living wound, raw and relentless.
The captain's voice rumbled low with ancient fury.
"You burn with stolen truth, Skyborn."
Aaron met his gaze without flinching.
"And you burn with a lie that was never yours."
Without warning, the captain charged. His sword was engulfed in red flame, hissing like a serpent. Every step thundered with betrayal and wrath.
Aaron countered with a surge of blue fire. It shot forward like a living current, slicing through the smoke and shadow. The two flames collided—blue and red—clashing not just as weapons, but as the legacy of two histories.
Aaron's flame moved like thought itself: sharp, fast, branching like lightning. The captain's fire was raw and untamed, a storm of fury and silence.
Each strike brought with it a wave of darkness that bit into Aaron's mind. He saw collapsing cities, children lost beneath burning banners, and a whisper echoing within his skull:
"Burn them before they question."
The voices pressed down on him. His steps faltered.
The captain smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes.
"Now you understand. Fire was never truth. It was fear, made into flame."
Aaron's breath caught in his throat—but only for a moment.
He clutched the journal tighter against his chest, hearing the words his mother once wrote echo in his heart:
"Fire is memory. Fire is voice."
His eyes sharpened.
"No," he said. "Fire is what we choose to make of it."
Then, instead of attacking the captain, Aaron unleashed his flame into the ground.
The floor glowed beneath their feet as ancient glyphs erupted into light. Skyborn runes, long dormant, ignited with blue fire. The hall trembled as their magic awakened.
The cursed red flames howled, twisting in pain. But the memory-born fire of the Skyborn sliced through the corruption, unraveling it like silk beneath pouring rain.
The captain fell to his knees. His armor cracked and crumbled.
Behind the helmet was no monster—just a broken man, eyes wide with fear, tears turning to steam.
"They told me I would be stronger…"
Aaron's voice turned cold.
"They just made you quieter."
---
From the rubble, a lone survivor stepped forward—the Cracked Mask, one of the few remaining councilors.
She looked at Aaron, torn between awe and fear.
"You burned a king's guard," she said.
Aaron shook his head slowly.
"No. I burned a lie."
She studied him, then stepped closer.
"You could claim the throne now."
"I don't want the throne."
"Then what is it you want?"
Aaron looked at her. For the first time in days, he smiled—clear, calm, and genuine.
"A kingdom that does not forget."
---
In a hidden chamber deep beneath the palace, Lucien stood before a throne carved from ash. In his hand, he held a torn page from Elira's journal.
He spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"He found it."
A shadow stood beside him, silent until now.
"Good," the figure replied. "Now we'll see if he burns with it… or because of it."