They returned to the Flame Hall.
Aran lit the central forge and retrieved the Oathbrand, still resting in its pillar of glassfire. It pulsed warmly in his hand — not with warning, but with recognition.
"It remembers," he said.
Elira joined him, scrolls in hand — fragments of ancient Flamebound records and Vaerin's recovered journal. One passage stood out, inked in an older tongue:
"When the stars fell and the sky bled fire, a name was carved into the dreams of the dying. It was not a curse, but an invitation. Those who answered never returned… but their shadows still walk."
The Flamebound had encountered this before.
Not often. Not openly. But always with the same pattern: a whisper, a name, a break in the world's rhythm.
And always followed by loss.
Elira pointed to a constellation drawn on one of the scrolls — seven points, connected by rings. "These aren't just stars. They're gates. Ancient portals hidden across the world."
Aran's eyes narrowed. "Nyareth didn't come through one. He came through them all."
A new road was forming. Not of fire. Not even of prophecy.
But of stars.
And somewhere beyond that sky, something was waiting.
Watching.
Hungering.