The chamber lay in silence, yet an unseen weight settled over Irelia's chest—heavy, oppressive, as if the very air carried the presence of something vast and unseen.
She stood before the Statue of Pyraxis, its outstretched hand reaching toward the heavens as if still holding onto the final remnants of his power. The obsidian surface gleamed in the golden light of the braziers, each carved detail painstakingly precise—the towering frame, the intricate lines of molten gold running through the stone, the solemn expression that bore neither rage nor sorrow, only acceptance.
Irelia took a slow breath. Her legs still ached, her body exhausted from the battle above, but something deep inside her urged her forward.
She placed one hand on the statue's heart. The stone was warm beneath her palm—not the lifeless cold of an idol, but something alive. With her other hand, she touched her own chest, fingers curling over the leather of her armor.
The moment she made contact, the world around her vanished.
She was no longer in the shrine.
She stood in fire.
Not the raging, untamed inferno of destruction—but something older. Something eternal.
In the heart of the flames, a colossal figure stood waiting.
Pyraxis.
His form was not stone, not molten rock—but fire itself. A titan wreathed in golden flames, his presence vast and overwhelming. His face—if he even had one—was indistinct, shifting and changing, yet she understood him. Felt him.
Felt his pain.
Felt his sacrifice.
Images flooded her mind. The Great War. The world breaking. Sutir falling, holding the land together with his final breath. The sky itself fracturing.
And Pyraxis…
He had stood at the edge of the world, watching it crumble, knowing that even his strength was not enough to stop it.
So, he had done the only thing left.
He had offered himself.
Not as a ruler. Not as a conqueror.
As a foundation.
The pain of it was immeasurable—she could feel it as if it were her own. To take his very essence, his power, and break it into pieces—scattering it across the land, knowing he would never be whole again.
Knowing he would be forgotten.
Irelia's chest ached.
She felt the weight of it—not just the power, but the understanding. The acceptance of an inevitable fate. The resolve to do what had to be done for a world that would never remember his name.
The flames surged. The vision wavered. And in that last moment, as Pyraxis faded, his voice—deep, vast, ancient—spoke.
But she couldn't understand.
The words slipped through her fingers like smoke, distant, unreachable—just like before.
Then—
The fire vanished.
Irelia gasped, the vision snapping away like a thread cut too soon.
She was back in the chamber, her hand still pressed against the statue's heart.
Her breath came shallow, her pulse thundering. Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists. The fire was gone, but the weight remained.
Her vision blurred. She barely registered the sensation of something warm sliding down her cheeks.
Tears.
A single tear fell and it landed against the statue's outstretched palm—
And the chamber trembled.
The air shifted.
The braziers flared brighter, the runes along the walls reacting as something ancient stirred.
From the hand of Pyraxis, a radiant light flickered to life.
Irelia stepped back as the orb of pure golden light emerged, hovering above the statue's palm. It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat—small at first, then growing, glowing, burning.
Nariel moved immediately, sensing the power. She took a step forward, reaching out—
But the light rejected her.
The moment her fingertips brushed the edge of the radiance, searing heat lashed out, an invisible force burning her palm. Nariel hissed, pulling back, her other hand instinctively summoning a protective ward of light magic.
"Irelia, don't—" she warned, her voice sharp with urgency.
But the light was already moving.
Irelia wasn't reaching for it. It was reaching for her.
The golden glow curled toward her fingers, wrapping around her like a lost thing returning home. And the moment it settled against her palm, the light faded—leaving behind something solid. Something alive.
An Egg.
No larger than her fist, yet pulsing with a presence that defied comprehension.
Its surface was mesmerizing—gold and crimson entwined like the last embers of a dying star, shifting, alive, as if the fire within was in constant motion. Etched flames coiled along its shell, never still, dancing in an endless cycle of creation and destruction.
Irelia held it carefully, reverently, the weight of it far heavier than its size should allow. She knew exactly what this was.
Behind her, Nariel exhaled sharply. Though her voice was steady, it carried the weight of something inevitable.
"That's what they're after."
Irelia nodded, her grip tightening. "The cult isn't just gathering fragments of Pyraxis' power."
She lifted the egg slightly, watching how its glow cast flickering light against the ancient stone. The warmth it radiated wasn't searing or scorching—it seeped into her bones, familiar, like something reaching for her in return.
"They're trying to take back what he gave away," she murmured.
Nariel's expression darkened. "And if they succeed?"
Irelia's stomach twisted.
She already knew the answer.
This wasn't just a relic.
It wasn't just some lost artifact buried beneath the weight of forgotten history.
This was Pyraxis.
A fraction of his essence.
Her breath hitched as she stared down at it, her fingers curling instinctively around the shell. The cult wasn't after simple power or knowledge.
They were after the Titan himself.
Her mind spun, the weight of that realization settling over her shoulders. If the cult was after the Eggs, they weren't just after magic—they were after something far greater.
If they gathered all the fragments… What then?
Would they resurrect Pyraxis?
Or worse—steal his power for themselves?
She swallowed.
She didn't know.
But whatever their purpose, nothing good would come of it.
Irelia clenched the Egg tighter, its warmth pressing against her palm.
They could not let the cult get their hands on this.
No matter what it took.
Nariel stood a few feet away, watching silently.
She hadn't spoken for a while. Hadn't moved closer.
But her blue eyes never left her.
She wasn't just watching.
She was studying her.
Her piercing blue eyes flickered to the Egg in Irelia's grasp, its ember-like glow pulsing in slow, steady waves. It looked harmless. Beautiful, even. But Nariel had seen the brazier's runes flare to life at Irelia's touch. Had watched the Ifrit hesitate, its molten gaze locking onto her, not with rage, but with recognition. And now, this Egg—this fragment of a Titan—had chosen her.
Was it fate? Or something far worse?
Nariel wanted to trust her. She truly did.
But something in her gut twisted. A whisper of unease. A warning she couldn't quite name.
"Are you sure you're the one meant to hold that?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
Irelia hesitated.
And for the first time, Nariel saw something unexpected in her emerald eyes.
Doubt.
Irelia's breath hitched—not at the question itself, but at the realization that she had no answer.
Nariel hadn't accused her. Hadn't even questioned her outright.
But there was something else in her words. A quiet wariness. A hesitation.
Like she wasn't sure if she was questioning Irelia—or something much bigger than her.
Irelia exhaled slowly, tightening her grip on the Egg.
Was she meant to hold this?
She hadn't chosen this. But the Ifrit had spoken to her. The brazier's runes had flared beneath her touch. And now, the Egg pulsed in her hands, responding to her, as if it had been waiting.
Her stomach twisted.
Something deep inside her—a voice she didn't want to acknowledge—whispered that none of this was coincidence.
That it had never been a coincidence.
Moving to Ignisia of all places, a town so close this these ruins. Accepting Pip's quest. Neither were coincidences, she knew it.
But she didn't have an answer.
Yet she did know one thing.
She lifted her gaze to Nariel's, determination solidifying in her chest.
"I don't think it matters," she said quietly. "Because I won't let the cult have it."
Nariel's jaw tightened, but she nodded.
She wasn't convinced.
Not entirely.
But she trusted Irelia—if only for now.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
The ride back to Ignisia was quiet.
Too quiet.
With the Egg secured in Irelia's satchel—wrapped in layers of cloth to dampen its unnatural warmth—the two warriors rode together, just like they had years ago.
Aurelia, Irelia's trusted mare, moved with practiced ease beneath them, her strides steady despite the exhaustion in her riders. The rhythmic motion of the horse should have been comforting.
But the silence between them was heavy.
Unspoken words lingered.
Questions neither of them were ready to ask.
Nariel sat behind Irelia, her hands resting lightly on the saddle's edges instead of gripping her waist like she once would have. It was a small thing.
But Irelia noticed.
She felt the distance between them.
And the fragile thread still holding them together.
Aurelia's hooves clattered softly against the worn stone path, the only sound cutting through the weight of the night's revelations.
What now?
Would the cult come after them?
Did they already know?
Irelia pressed a hand to her satchel, feeling the warmth pulse faintly through the fabric. The Egg's presence was unmistakable, like a beacon calling to something—or someone.
She didn't know what was coming.
But she knew one thing.
This wasn't the end.
This is only the beginning.
The ruins faded behind them, swallowed by the jagged mountains and scorched valleys of the Ignisian borderlands.
The burning glow of Ignisia's torches shimmered in the distance, a beacon of civilization after the depths of the temple's darkness.
But they were not alone.
Something watched.
High above the cliffs, where the mountain shadows swallowed the light, a figure stood watching.
They did not follow. Did not move. Did not need to.
Golden eyes flickered in the darkness, embers dancing at their edges.
The Egg had been taken. Just as expected.
A slow breath. A quiet shift of movement. Then, the figure turned, vanishing into the blackened rock, leaving only a whisper of smoke in their wake.
The hunt had begun.