The Vault was not on any map.
Hidden deep beneath the Shattered Mesa, where molten rivers whispered of forgotten gods, the Vault of Varyn was more legend than place—spoken of only in hushed tones by the last of the Flamebound, and feared by even them.
Shadow-Aran stood before its entrance: a colossal stone gate etched with runes older than any empire, sealed with sigils that could kill a lesser soul at a glance. But he was no lesser soul.
He pressed his palm to the center rune—a phoenix in descent, its wings crumbling into ash.
The stone groaned.
The mountain wept light.
And the Vault opened.
Inside, darkness did not wait; it watched. Every step echoed like a challenge. Every breath was heavier than the last.
The chamber beyond the threshold was vast and circular, its walls lined with fireglass that shimmered with imprisoned memories—visions of the first Flamebound warriors forging their oaths in blood and fire, binding themselves to purpose without name.
Shadow-Aran walked slowly, deliberately, past each frozen scene. He did not flinch. He did not mourn.
At the chamber's heart lay the Pyric Core—a sphere of eternal flame suspended in air, pulsing with the raw essence of creation. It was the source of the first bond… and the last seal.
A voice echoed, old and cracked like burning wood.
"You are not the one chosen."
"I am the one left behind," Shadow-Aran replied. "And I have returned to finish what they were too afraid to begin."
The flame surged.
"You would sever the bond of fire and purpose," the voice said. "You would make it serve only you."
Shadow-Aran smiled, stepping forward. "No. I will make it serve truth. No more promises. No more weakness. Only fire."
He plunged his hand into the Pyric Core.
The chamber screamed.
Chains of flame shot outward, seeking to bind him—but he welcomed them, drew them into his veins. His body shuddered, his skin fracturing with glowing fault-lines as power surged through him—not borrowed, not gifted, but claimed.
Above ground, lightning split the sky.
And far across the world, Aran felt it—a tearing in his soul, as though a twin heart had been set ablaze.
Elira turned sharply. "What was that?"
Aran's voice was hollow. "He found it. The Vault."
Vaerin's face darkened. "Then it's begun."
Aran lifted the Oathbrand.
"Not yet. It ends when I say it ends."