The air thickened, pressing against their lungs like molten stone.
The crowned figure stepped closer, the black fire around him distorting the chamber's light. He moved like smoke—fluid, slow, inevitable. And where he passed, the stone cracked, bleeding embers.
Aran stood his ground, golden fire burning from his hands. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted his head, amused. "You mean, what am I."
The Mirror pulsed behind him—no longer white, but fractured, uncertain. It flickered between futures.
Elira gasped. "I know that crown… I've seen it in the Flamewell visions. That's not a man. That's the Watcher."
Vaerin's eyes narrowed. "The god of the Unlit Flame."
The Watcher smiled. "Not a god. A memory given hunger. When the first fire rose, I was the shadow it cast. The Mirror created me—because no flame exists without something to burn."
He turned to Aran.
"You, Emberborn, are the brightest flame I've seen in an age. Your love for her burns deeper than any oath. And that love… could light the world—or unmake it."
Aran gritted his teeth. "I made a promise. Not to destroy. To protect."
"Then prove it," the Watcher whispered, extending a hand.
The Mirror blazed—and suddenly Aran was alone.
Not in the cavern. Not even in his body.
He stood in a world of fire and memory, surrounded by scenes from his life—his first battle, the night Elira kissed his scarred cheek, the day he swore to bring her back.
And a final vision: himself, standing over a broken world, the Mirror shattered, Elira dying in his arms—his fire raging out of control.
"You carry the Emberthorn," the Watcher's voice echoed around him. "But do you carry its purpose? Or only its rage?"
Aran clenched his fists. "Then test me."
And the trial began.