The world vanished.
Aran stood alone in a realm of blinding light and endless flame. The air shimmered, not from heat, but memory—echoes of a thousand choices suspended in the fire around him. Each one was a path he had walked… or might have.
A figure stepped from the light—his mirror image.
But this Aran wore the Ash Crown.
"I am what you could become," the doppelgänger said. "The Aran who chose power over love. Who saved the world—by ruling it."
Aran clenched his fists. "I'm not you."
"No," the echo replied, "not yet. But every time you draw your sword, every time you promise to protect her, you step closer. Power is seductive when used for love. Are you strong enough to love… without control?"
The fire around them responded, forming visions—Elira weeping in a ruined temple; Aran standing over a battlefield of broken bodies; a throne of flame surrounded by ash.
Aran closed his eyes, searching for the truth in the heat.
He remembered the first time he held Elira's hand… not in power, but in weakness. Not as a protector, but as a man simply afraid to lose her.
"I don't need control," he said quietly. "I need faith."
The fire screamed—but it did not burn him.
The Ash King vanished.
Aran opened his eyes to the cavern once more.
The ember in his chest now glowed gold, steady and true. Elira reached out, tears on her cheeks, sensing the change.
"You passed."
"No," Aran said. "We passed."
Above them, the Emberthorn shed a single golden leaf.
The Flamebound would rise again.