Smoke still lingered in the sky, a bitter memory of the battle at the Flamebound Shrine. The group traveled in silence, haunted not by what they had done—but by what was coming.
Thorne was wounded, yes. But far from defeated.
Elara stood at the front, her shoulders squared, her eyes cold. She no longer flinched at memories or ghosts. But even as she walked, she felt it—the ripple in the air. Something had changed since Thorne disappeared.
Something darker had entered the game.
Far away, in a chamber built of bone and black glass, Thorne knelt before a pool of shadow.
The figure that emerged from the mist was tall and cloaked in gold-threaded darkness, her skin pale as death, her eyes glowing silver.
"You disappoint me, Thorne," she said, her voice soft and sharp like broken glass. "You promised me fire. You gave me ashes."
"I was betrayed," he growled. "Elara—"
"Is not your enemy," she interrupted. "I am."
Thorne lowered his gaze.
The woman stepped forward, her presence suffocating. "You will not awaken Velcrin alone. The prophecy was never meant for one soul. You must bind with me."
He flinched. "And become your puppet?"
"No," she smiled. "Become a god."
He looked into her eyes—and saw eternity.
And so, Thorne took her hand.
Back at camp, Evelyn stood by the riverside, her hands glowing with light as she meditated. Magic pulsed around her like waves, but something was wrong—unstable.
"Breathe," she whispered. "Focus."
The prophecy had begun to burn through her veins, each vision more painful than the last. She had seen herself standing alone before fire… and falling.
She didn't know if it was a warning—or fate.
Lucien approached, his brow furrowed. "You haven't slept in days."
"I don't have time," she said. "The magic is changing. The gods are waking. We're standing in the middle of something ancient and angry."
Lucien touched her arm. "Then don't face it alone."
She looked at him—surprised by the gentleness in his voice.
"I'm serious," he added. "You're not invincible, Evelyn. And if you break, we all fall."
For a moment, the strong mage looked like a girl barely holding herself together.
Then she nodded, quietly. "Thank you."
That night, Elara sat beside Kael, the campfire between them flickering gently. Her fingers played with the edge of her dagger, her thoughts far away.
Kael watched her.
"You've changed," he said.
She looked at him, wary. "In a bad way?"
"No," he said softly. "In the way warriors change. When they stop running from pain and start standing in it."
She smiled faintly. "You sound like you've done that before."
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stood, pulling something from his coat.
A black iron ring—etched with an ancient sigil.
"This belonged to my father," Kael said. "He gave it to me before he died—told me to only give it to someone who made me believe life was worth fighting for again."
Elara's breath caught.
"Kael…"
He knelt before her—not in a romantic gesture, but as someone laying down armor.
"I don't know what happens tomorrow," he said. "But if we fall, I want you to know… you've already saved me."
He offered her the ring.
She took it.
Not as a promise of forever.
But as proof that she mattered—not just to the war, but to him.
And she leaned forward, resting her forehead to his, whispering, "Then let's live long enough to regret this together."
But as the firelight faded, miles away, a scream echoed through the forests.
A scream that wasn't human.
And the sky cracked open as dark lightning split the clouds.
Thorne had made his pact.
And the Flameborn War had only just begun.