Silence followed.
The golden flame receded, dimming to embers. The Vault, cracked and broken, stood still beneath a sky that had stopped weeping fire.
Shadow-Aran knelt, impaled by the Oathbrand, his own black fire flickering and fading. He looked up at Aran — not with hatred, but something close to peace.
"You… held on," he rasped. "Even when it burned."
"I didn't hold on," Aran said, voice low. "I became it."
Shadow-Aran coughed a laugh, blood and ember spilling from his lips. "Then maybe… one of us deserved to live."
Aran knelt, steadying him. "You weren't the mistake. You were the warning."
The doppelgänger's gaze softened. "Tell her… I remembered."
Then, like ash in the wind, he crumbled.
The Pyric Core dimmed, then flickered back to life — not as a weapon, but a flame whole again.
Elira entered the chamber slowly, eyes wide with wonder and grief. "Is it over?"
Aran turned to her, eyes glowing gold and weary.
"No," he said, reaching for her hand. "But the world has a second chance."
She held his hand tightly, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, they stood in fire not as enemies of fate—but as its authors.