The world around Aran shifted like burning parchment.
He stood in a mirror-realm of fire and memory—where time unraveled, and every step took him deeper into himself. The sky above was cracked glass. The ground beneath was embered stone that shifted with each heartbeat.
In the distance stood three gates, each glowing with a different flame: crimson, gold, and violet.
The Watcher's voice slithered through the heat.
"Three flames. Three truths. Face them… or be consumed."
Aran approached the Crimson Gate. As he passed through, the fire swelled into a battlefield—one from his youth. He watched himself as a boy, too young to carry a sword, cradling a dying comrade in his arms.
"You could have saved him," the boy-Aran accused. "You hesitated."
"I was afraid," Aran whispered. "And I still am."
The fire surged, but did not burn.
Truth accepted.
He moved to the Golden Gate. Through it, he saw Elira—standing in the healing glade, smiling, untouched by war. A vision of what might have been.
"You could let me go," the vision said sweetly. "Forget the promise. Live for yourself."
Aran reached for her—and stopped. "I made the promise not to possess you… but to walk beside you."
The vision faded. Only fire remained.
The final gate—Violet—was the coldest.
Inside stood his future self—older, bitter, cloaked in fire-black armor, alone upon a ruined throne.
"This is who you'll become," the voice warned. "If you forget why you burn."
Aran met the figure's eyes. "Then I will never forget."
He stepped forward—and plunged a hand into the figure's heart. Light erupted. Flame turned to truth.
The gates vanished. The trial ended.
And Aran stood before the Mirror once more—breathing hard, fire coursing through his veins, but unbroken.
The Watcher reeled back, snarling. "You refuse me?"
"I choose me," Aran growled. "I choose her."
And the Mirror lit with pure flame.
The true Emberthorn awoke.