The chamber was older than time.
Carved into the heart of the Pale Lands, it pulsed with a low, rhythmic hum—like the heartbeat of a god asleep. Aran, Elira, and Vaerin stepped through a veil of emberlight, the map finally fading to ash in Aran's hand.
They had arrived.
At the center of the vast cavern stood a structure of flame made solid: the Mirror of Flame. It hovered above a dais of blackstone, its surface liquid and ever-burning, reflecting not the world around it—but the truths buried within those who looked.
Elira drew close first.
The Mirror shimmered and showed her… herself as a child, holding Rhen's hand, healing wounds with a laugh instead of pain. Then, the same hands now, steady and weathered, healing with power, but less joy. Tears touched her lashes.
Vaerin stepped forward. He saw blood—his brother's face, twisted in rage. The day he fled the Ember Council. He did not speak.
And then Aran.
He stared into the Mirror—and it showed him… nothing.
Only eyes.
Eyes of fire.
Then a voice—not aloud, but within him.
"You carry promise, Aran Thorne. But promise is a blade. Wielded by love… or by ruin."
Flames erupted across the chamber walls. The ground shook.
"Elira!" Aran shouted, reaching for her.
But she was already turning—her eyes wide, horrified.
"They found us."
From the shadows behind the Mirror, a figure emerged—draped in robes of living coal, a crown of black flame atop his brow.
"You opened the gate," the figure said. "Now the fire will choose."
And the Mirror began to burn white.