The peace Aran and Elira found among the meadows was short-lived. Word traveled fast across the valleys—whispers of a war brewing beyond the northern horizons. The remnants of the cursed forces that once fed the ruins of Vareth were not vanquished; they had scattered, seeking new masters.
One night, as thunderclouds rolled across the mountains, Vaerin returned bearing grim tidings.
"The Hollow Court rises," he said, tossing a charred banner at Aean's feet. The insignia was clear—a broken crown wreathed in black fire. "They gather the remnants of the curse. They seek the Flame you carry."
Aran exchanged a glance with Elira, who stood with her hand resting over her heart. The Oathbrand between them pulsed gently, a living reminder of the bond—and the danger—they now shared.
"We won't run," Aran said firmly. "Not again."
Vaerin's eyes gleamed with approval. "Then we prepare."
Under the flickering light of campfires, they began assembling allies. Wanderers who had once feared Vareth now pledged loyalty to Aran and Elira. The bond of the Flame inspired them, a beacon in the growing darkness.
As the first snow of the season fell across the valley, Aran stood beside Elira atop a rocky outcrop, gazing down at the gathering forces.
"This isn't just our fight anymore," he murmured.
Elira squeezed his hand, her voice steady and strong. "No. It's the world's."
Above them, lightning split the heavens—and Aran knew the true test of their promise was yet to come.