The sky was ablaze, but Elira's world narrowed to a single truth: she had to stop the Crown—no matter the cost.
As Aran and Rhen clashed, their firestorms ravaging the shattered streets of Valebright, Elira ran—not away, but toward the Spire's heart. She remembered what the Emberthorn had whispered beneath the earth: Only the Flameborn may end what the Flame has bound.
She was born of fire too.
The golden mark on her palm pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, guiding her through collapsing corridors and memory-washed halls. Statues cracked and crumbled around her. Whispers from the past drifted on the ash—her own voice, as a child… and Rhen's, laughing.
She stopped before the sacred font—the Flamewell. Once a place of healing, now dimmed, flickering.
"I need you," she whispered. "Please… show me what remains."
The Flamewell answered.
Visions surged forth: her and Rhen, small, orphaned, clutching each other under a bloodied moon; Elira's first healing touch; Rhen's promise to protect her always. His love had once been pure. It had become corrupted only when he believed protection required possession.
She wept.
Then she stood.
From her mark, golden tendrils flowed into the Flamewell, reigniting its heart. The well responded, blooming like a sun reborn.
A voice filled the chamber—hers, yet not: "You are the Key."
The mark burned. Her breath caught.
If she chose this path, it would not be without sacrifice.
Above, thunder split the sky.
Aran was faltering.
Elira pressed her hand to the well—and gave it everything.