The Vault pulsed with heat and memory.
Aran stepped into the chamber, the Oathbrand steady in his grip, golden flame rising from its edge. Across from him, his other self stood unarmed, hands behind his back, black fire dancing across his shoulders like a cloak of living shadow.
"So," Shadow-Aran said, tilting his head. "This is how the myth ends. With a sword in one hand, and doubt in the other."
Aran didn't reply at first. He stared—not at the flames—but at the face. His face. Not warped. Not monstrous. Just… colder. Sharper.
"Why do this?" Aran asked. "Why burn the world for the sake of your own pain?"
Shadow-Aran chuckled. "Pain? No, brother. This isn't about pain. This is about truth. We were born into fire, forged by promise, and bound by lies. I only removed the chains."
"You think this makes you stronger?"
"I know it does. You still cling to the old promise. The girl. The oath. The weakness."
Aran's eyes narrowed. "You saw Elira burn, didn't you? And you did nothing."
"I saw her refuse the flame," Shadow-Aran snapped. "She chose you. The version of us that falters. I let her go, because she made her choice."
"That wasn't strength. That was cowardice."
For a moment, the flames flared—gold and black, spiraling upward as both Arans stepped closer, their voices growing quieter.
"You don't want to kill me," Shadow-Aran said.
"I don't," Aran admitted. "But I will. If I must."
Shadow-Aran's gaze sharpened. "Then let's find out which of us deserves the fire."