There was no sound.
No wind.
No sky.
Only ash.
Soft. Gray. Endless.
Elira opened her eyes. She wasn't standing anymore. She floated, but not like flying. It was like the world itself had stopped needing directions, no up, no down, no place to go.
The crown was gone.
So was the lantern.
And so, she thought, was she.
Then a voice.
Soft. Careful.
"You're not gone."
She turned.
Niro stood beside her.
His lantern was dim, but steady.
"I saw you burn," she whispered.
He smiled. "And yet here we are."
"But how?"
"This is the Emberdeep," he said. "Where all fire rests before it chooses to burn again."
"I gave up my flame."
He nodded. "That's why you're here."
Elira looked around. "Am I dead?"
"No. But you're not exactly alive either. You're in between."
"Great," she said, folding her arms. "Stuck in a magical waiting room."
He chuckled, and she felt warmer.
But not warm like fire.
Warm like being missed.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out something.
A tiny spark.
No bigger than a fingernail.
"This is what you left behind," he said. "Even when we give everything, there's always one ember left."
She stared. "What do I do with it?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
Above, in the broken city of Ardain, the battle still raged.
Varn stood alone before the One Who Ends, sword of frost clashing against wild fire. Each blow sent ripples through the stones. His breath came in cold gusts, but the shadow's heat licked at his edges.
"You were supposed to change," Varn growled.
"I did," the shadow said. "I became what I was always meant to be."
Solin stood behind the throne, arms raised, voice shaking the stones. Her song was cracked, her throat raw, but she sang.
She sang of grief.
Of quiet mornings.
Of love too strong to end.
And the Circle pulsed with her notes.
Myn hovered above, weaving stars into nets, trying to trap the shadow's limbs, buying seconds for the others. Her eyes burned with tears.
"Where is she?" she shouted.
"Gone!" the shadow roared. "She gave herself up. That is what kindness gets you."
Kesh roared and slammed his hammer down.
"Don't you dare talk about her."
But the fire shoved them all back.
Isen staggered, clutching the broken pieces of the Mourner's mask, whispering prayers of memory, trying to hold the Circle steady.
The crown floated in the air above the throne—but its glow faded. Without Elira, it was just iron again.
And the One Who Ends reached for it.
Elira stared at the ember.
It pulsed, like a tiny heartbeat.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough," she said.
"Strength isn't never breaking," Niro said. "It's choosing to stand after."
"I already gave everything."
"Then give again," he said. "But this time, not for the Circle. For yourself."
She blinked. "What?"
"You gave your flame for the world. But your light—that's something else. That belongs to Elira."
She closed her hand around the ember.
It was warm.
And then it was burning.
Fire shot through her chest, not pain, not heat, but memory.
She saw her village.
The night of the fire.
Her parents screaming.
Her running.
The woods.
The silence after.
The promise.
"No one else will feel like this. Not if I can help it."
She opened her eyes.
And the Emberdeep blazed.
A streak of light tore across the sky.
The shadow froze.
The Circle gasped.
And Elira stepped through the air like it was a stairway.
She held no crown.
No lantern.
Just herself.
Burning with her own light.
"You're supposed to be gone!" the shadow screamed.
"I was," she said. "But I chose to stay."
He lunged.
She didn't move.
The fire reached her—
—and broke.
It bent around her. Like it remembered who she was. Like even the flames were rooting for her.
She stepped forward.
One step.
Another.
"You tried to take everything from me," she said. "But you forgot something."
She placed her hand on his chest.
"I am the fire."
And then—
Silence.
The Circle burned.
But this time, together.
The shadow cracked.
He looked down.
He saw himself, small again. A boy lost in a world that didn't understand his light.
He began to cry.
Elira caught him.
And held him.
The flame rose between them, pure and gold and free.
The city shook.
But it didn't fall.
It bloomed.
Stones rose, whole again.
Towers straightened.
The throne shone.
The crown floated, light now, weightless.
The Circle stepped into place, each flame a piece of the whole.
And in the middle, Elira.
She didn't take the crown.
She shared it.
They all did.
No more one ruler.
No more broken flame.
A Circle, whole again.
That night, the skies above Ardain shimmered.
People far away felt the warmth.
The creatures in the woods sang.
The ocean sent up waves of joy.
And somewhere, in a quiet field, a child smiled in her sleep.
Elira looked at her friends.
Solin leaned on her shoulder, humming.
Kesh told a terrible joke and made Myn laugh too loud.
Varn stared at the stars, quiet and proud.
Isen sat on the steps, cradling the old mask, smiling gently.
And Niro?
He stood with her.
Always.
She took a breath.
"It's done."
He looked at her. "No, Flamekeeper. It's just begun."