The cold bit deeper than any winter Aran had known.
He and Elira stood at the threshold of the Pale Lands, where the stars dimmed and the wind whispered in voices long dead. The mountains loomed like frozen sentinels, their peaks crowned in ash rather than snow. Beneath them, black forests stretched wide—branches sharp as blades, roots choked in bone.
The map shimmered in Aran's hand, guiding them beyond known trails. Each step forward was like walking into memory—not their own, but someone else's. Someone ancient. Someone angry.
"These lands remember what fire forgot," Elira murmured, her breath forming crystals in the air.
Vaerin, flanking them, held his blade close. "No birds. No beasts. Just silence. That's never a good omen."
As they descended into a narrow ravine, a strange fog rolled in—thick, silver, and humming with unseen power. The map's glow pulsed faster.
Elira stumbled.
"Elira?" Aran caught her. Her eyes had turned glassy.
"I see it… the Mirror," she whispered. "It's waiting, but… it's watching us back."
Then the ground split.
A burst of golden fire erupted beneath them, throwing the party into chaos. Figures rose from the chasm—half-flame, half-flesh, wearing the armor of the first Flamebound. Their eyes burned with twisted light.
"Guardians," Vaerin hissed, drawing steel. "Or what's left of them."
Aran's flame surged to life, casting shadows against the walls. The Pale Lands were not forgotten.
They had simply been waiting.