The heavens fracture like glass.
A second sun rises behind Aveline.
But it's not light.
It's hunger.
Aveline stands in the heart of the ruined throne room, eyes black, hair floating like smoke.
The stolen god uncoils inside her like a serpent shedding its skin.
"Xereth," she whispers. "I offer you my soul."
"You offer me nothing," the voice replies from within her and around her.
"I take."
He emerges not as a man.
Not as a monster.
But as something primordial.
Eyes like voids. Skin like dusk. Wings made of unwritten scripture the kind even gods were too afraid to read.
And he looks at me.
Not like prey.
But like a puzzle he never solved.
"Lyraxis," Xereth says slowly.
"You survived your own fire."
"I am my fire," I answer.
"You were the one who tried to steal it."
I raise my hand.
White flame spirals into existence alive, merciless, remembered.
He grins. The capital trembles.
"Shall we finish what we started, Origin?" he growls.
"Shall we show your little world what gods truly are?"
But this time, I'm not alone.
Sanctuary rises.
The people I once sheltered now rise with me not to worship, but to stand beside me.
Mages.
Cursed.
Monsters.
Children of the forgotten flame.
Aveline watches, hollow-eyed, consumed by the very power she begged to wield.
And I realize something tragic:
She never wanted the throne.
She just wanted to be me.
"You thought I was made by their fear," I whisper to Xereth.
"But I was made by their hope."
"And that," I say as my flame forms wings behind me,
"is something you'll never be able to consume."
And then
we clash.
White fire and void light.
Past and primeval.
Not for survival.
But for the right to rewrite the story itself.