The Oathbrand struck with the force of a falling star.
Steel met shadow. Light met dark. Aran and his twin clashed at the Vault's heart with such ferocity the ancient stone groaned under their fury. Memories shattered around them — whispers of old oaths, long-dead warriors, flickering like ghosts in the flame-choked air.
Shadow-Aran fought without hesitation, each blow surgical, each movement exact. He was not driven by rage, but by finality. He wanted this over.
Aran fought with something deeper — not perfection, but purpose. For Elira. For the innocent. For the version of himself that still believed in healing what had been broken.
Outside, Elira's staff struck down the last of the acolytes. Vaerin, bleeding and breathless, leaned against the doorway, watching the sky split with fire.
"He's losing control," Elira whispered. "The Vault's reacting."
Indeed it was. The Pyric Core above began to pulse erratically — the stolen fire rejecting its thief. Every heartbeat threatened implosion. And still, the two Arans fought.
Shadow-Aran caught Aran's blade with bare hands of burning coal. "You can't defeat me. I know everything you are. I am you."
Aran pressed forward, fury and flame surging through him.
"No," he said. "You're everything I chose not to be."
With a final cry, he wrenched the Oathbrand free and plunged it through Shadow-Aran's chest.
The Vault exploded in light.