Nareon dreamed again.
But this time, it wasn't Mireon's voice that met him in the void.
It was his own.
Younger.
Unshaped.
Before red flame.
Before certainty.
Before obedience.
"I used to wonder what my real name was," the voice whispered in the dark.
"Before he gave me one."
And in the hush that followed, two threads hovered in the void.
One red, pulsing with the weight of command.
One gray, soft as breath, waiting to be chosen.
He reached for neither.
Not yet.
The Waking Doubt
When he rose at dawn, the gray flame Thera had left still flickered beside him.
Untouched.
But unextinguished.
He stared at it while the Circle gathered, listening to Thera recite the day's question:
"What part of yourself have you never trusted?"
The children answered. One by one.
But Nareon did not speak.
Not aloud.
Inside, though, the question echoed.
And the answer was sharp and simple:
"The part that doesn't belong to him."
A Shimmer of Defiance
That evening, Mireon called.
Not with fire.
Not with fury.
With honeyed quiet.
"You've grown strong," the voice cooed.
"They trust you now."
"Soon, you can shape them in my image."
Nareon hesitated.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will take back what I gave."
A pause.
And then Mireon added:
"And leave you empty again."
Nareon gritted his teeth.
"Maybe… I'd rather be empty than owned."
And somewhere in the space between words and silence, the gray flame beside him flared—just once.
As if it heard.
The Trial of Mirrors
Thera approached him the next morning with eyes like stormlight.
"You keep standing in both stories," she said.
"We all see it."
"It's time to choose."
She led him to the glade of mirrorpool stones, where the oldest flameweavers once sought truth in reflection.
He knelt.
Touched the water.
And saw two versions of himself ripple across the surface.
One: cloaked in red, certainty on his tongue, every answer quick and final.
The other: quiet, unsure, reaching—but never closing his fist.
He stared.
And for the first time in his life… he stepped away from the reflection he recognized.
Toward the one he feared.
The Circle Holds
He returned to the Circle before dusk.
Stood before the others.
And for once, did not speak with poise.
He stammered.
He paused.
But every word was his.
"My name is… not finished."
"I don't know if I'll fail you."
"But I don't want to serve a voice that fears questions."
He held out the gray flame in his hand.
"I want this."
"Not to prove anything."
"But because it asks me to grow."
The children didn't cheer.
They didn't cry.
They simply breathed.
As if they had been holding it this whole time.
Thera nodded.
"Then the Circle is truly yours now."
Mireon Fractures
In the Tower of Echoes, the shadow writhed.
The bond frayed.
Mireon could no longer see through the boy's eyes.
He slammed a hand through the loom of stolen threads.
"He was mine."
"He was mine."
But the red cords responded only with silence.
A vessel who chooses to leave becomes unreadable.
Unusable.
Unwritten.
Naming the Flame
That night, Nareon sat alone.
He no longer feared the quiet.
He no longer needed Mireon's voice to feel shaped.
He whispered to the gray flame:
"I don't want to be called what he named me."
"I want to be called… something that doesn't finish me."
The flame pulsed.
And from the edge of the trees, Thera smiled.
"Then we'll call you what you are," she said.
"Becoming."