Rien's return from the dream-realm did not mark the end of Mireon's reach.
It marked the beginning of something deeper.
For even though he could not twist the Unwritten Flame, he had tasted the fear beneath it—the fear of being forgotten, of shaping a story that would never be seen.
And so, while the Flamebearers rallied to protect the dream, Mireon looked elsewhere.
To the waking world.
To a vessel.
A voice.
A living page.
Teaching the Young
On the slopes of Dawnridge, where threads hung like morning mist from tree to tree, a new kind of circle was forming.
No lanterns.
No bindings.
Just open air, open hearts, and the breath of memory unforced.
Here, Elyra had gathered twelve children—Flameborn, Threadkind, Unnamed—and sat with them not to instruct, but to listen.
"You are not stories waiting to be told," she said.
"You are stories telling themselves."
A girl with coal-dark eyes whispered, "But what if I forget who I want to be?"
Elyra smiled.
"Then someone beside you will remember. And remind you."
It was the first teaching of the Keepers of the Breath—a new order.
Not to record.
Not to command.
But to hold space for stories still becoming.
Mireon's Search
Far from the light of Dawnridge, in the ruins of old Codex sanctuaries, Mireon's shadows hunted.
He could not destroy the gray thread.
But he could corrupt a vessel to channel his voice.
One who did not yet know what they were.
One who feared becoming.
In the dust-choked city of Talanre, he found such a soul.
A boy named Jash.
Seventeen winters.
No thread.
No home.
Only questions.
And a quiet, bitter anger at being forgotten.
Mireon wrapped around him not with force—but with flattery.
"You are not lost."
"You are unwritten."
"And I… will give you shape."
The Second Flame
Meanwhile, at the Loom's base, Rien and Tessen studied the gray thread as it pulsed with a new light.
A second thread had begun to form.
This one shaped not by breath alone, but by choice.
A reflection of the first—but no copy.
"It's not bound to you," Tessen said quietly. "It's becoming… someone else."
"Good," Rien replied. "That means it's working."
She touched the second thread gently.
It responded like a heartbeat.
A child in the village of Maren woke that night and whispered to her mother:
"I dreamed of a flame that sang me my own name."
The Whisper in the Glass
Back in Talanre, Jash stood before the cracked mirror in the ruin's hall.
He did not recognize his reflection.
His eyes glowed faintly red now—not fire, not thread, but echo.
Mireon's presence behind him murmured gently.
"You were forgotten."
"I will write you."
"Say the name I give you, and you will become more than memory."
The name trembled on Jash's tongue.
Not his.
Not yet.
But so tempting.
Kaelen's Warning
Kaelen arrived in Talanre days later, tracking rumors of red-eyed spirits and children hearing voices in their sleep.
He found the mirror cracked.
The stone warm.
But Jash… was gone.
In the dust, written in a half-circle of ash, was a name in red:
Nareon.
Kaelen's jaw clenched.
He touched the ash with his fingers and whispered, "He's found his vessel."
The Breath and the Blade
Back at Ashlight Vale, Rien stood beneath the stars, watching the second flame grow.
She felt the shift ripple through the threadlines.
A story was forming, one Mireon had touched.
And for the first time since returning from the dream-realm, she drew her sword.
Not to threaten.
But to protect.
"We've taught them to breathe," she whispered.
"Now we teach them to defend that breath."