The winds over the Shattered Mesa howled like mourning spirits.
Aran stood at the mesa's edge, looking down into the canyon below, where the mountain's jagged throat spiraled into mist. Somewhere beneath all that stone and shadow, the Vault of Varyn burned with stolen flame. He felt it in his bones—every pulse from below pulling at the Oathbrand like a forgotten heartbeat.
Elira stepped beside him. "You're sure this is it?"
He nodded. "He's there. I can feel him. It's like… my fire's being rewritten."
Vaerin knelt, brushing his fingers along the stone. "Tracks. Heavy, recent. He didn't come alone."
Aran clenched his fist. "Acolytes."
"Dozens," Vaerin confirmed. "Maybe more. Fanatics drunk on his flame."
Elira gripped her staff. "They'll fight to protect him."
"They'll die doing it," Aran replied, his voice steady. "But I'm not here for them. I'm here to end him."
The descent was treacherous—ancient stone paths carved by gods or madmen, suspended by nothing but stubborn air and sheer will. Flameborn sigils flickered along the cliffs, warding intruders. Aran's mark—long dormant—burned through his armor, and the sigils parted before him.
"They still recognize you," Elira said.
Aran's face was like stone. "They recognize the promise."
At the base of the mesa, the entrance to the Vault yawned open—smoke billowing like breath from a sleeping beast. The air reeked of scorched blood and molten truth. The first bodies lay just inside: fallen Flamebound statues, long-dead guardians reawakened and shattered in battle.
"He's not hiding anymore," Vaerin muttered. "He wants you to come."
"He's going to get what he wants," Aran said.
He stepped across the threshold, the Oathbrand igniting in his grip—not with fury, but clarity.
Each step forward awakened memories: Elira's vow beneath the starlit tree. His oath at Elarian Ridge. The weight of fire in his father's dying words.
And then—a voice in the dark.
"So… you finally came home."
Flames ignited in the distance, coiling like dragons.
And there he stood.
Shadow-Aran.
Identical. In form. In fire. But his eyes… were empty of mercy.
Aran raised his sword.
Shadow-Aran raised his hand.
Two flames.
One fate.