The sky above Valebright bled crimson.
The sigil pulsing in the air twisted with shadow and fire—its presence oppressive, ancient, and familiar. Aran knew it without understanding how.
It was the Ash Crown, reborn.
But this time, it did not rest on his brow.
From the western archway of the square, a figure emerged—cloaked in dusk, armored in obsidian, a helm shaped like broken wings. As he stepped forward, Aran felt the Flame within him recoil.
The stranger removed his helm.
Elira's breath caught.
"Rhen."
Aran turned sharply. "You know him?"
"My brother," she whispered. "He died in the Siege of Thalara… or so I thought."
Rhen's eyes glowed the same gold as Aran's, but colder, detached. "I died, Elira. And in death, I saw truth. Aran failed you. Again and again. So I will protect you… the way he never could."
Aran stepped forward, voice low and steady. "You've bound yourself to a crown that consumes. It won't protect her. It'll burn her."
Rhen extended his hand. "Come, sister. With me, you'll never fear loss again."
Elira didn't move. Her eyes shimmered with sadness.
"I don't need safety, Rhen. I need choice."
She reached for Aran's hand. Flame met flame—one gold, one bright as dawn.
Rhen's expression twisted. "Then you have chosen fire."
He raised his hand.
And the sky fell.
A storm of ash and spectral flame tore through the city. Statues shattered. The Spire trembled. Aran barely had time to throw up a barrier of golden fire.
Elira drew her own magic, the sun-mark on her palm blazing bright.
Together, they stood against the storm.
The war for the Crown had begun.