Ash rained like snow.
Aran moved through the chaos with Elira at his side, their joined magic warding off the worst of the storm. Around them, Valebright crumbled—not from destruction, but from despair. The petrified citizens had begun to fracture, as though the city itself were being erased.
"His fire feeds on memory," Elira said, her voice raw. "Rhen's trying to wipe the past—rewrite everything with flame."
Aran gritted his teeth. "Then we burn brighter."
With a cry, he drove his sword into the stone beneath his feet. Gold light erupted upward in a dome, pushing back the encroaching shadow. From the heart of the blast, Vaerin emerged, singed but alive.
"Reinforcements from the Flamebound are en route," he shouted. "But the Spire won't hold much longer. We need to end this—fast."
Aran turned to Elira. "Can we sever the Ash Crown from him?"
She hesitated. "Only if he lets go of what fuels it. His grief. His belief that love means control."
Aran's gaze hardened. "Then I'll make him see."
As they surged forward, the shadows parted—and Rhen descended from the air like a god of ruin. The Ash Crown blazed atop his brow, his eyes twin suns of wrath.
Aran stepped forward, golden fire in hand.
"Rhen of the Ash Crown," he called. "This ends tonight."
Rhen sneered. "So be it."
They collided.
Flame against flame. Memory against will. A duel not just of power—but of belief.
And as the city cracked beneath their fury, Elira whispered a vow into the wind:
"I will not lose them both."