The flames of the Vault no longer threatened to consume. Now, they warmed.
Word of the battle spread like dawn after a long night. The name Aran Fireborne passed from village to city to kingdom — not as a warlord, not as a cursed heir, but as a savior who had burned away the darkness and survived.
It took weeks to climb out of the wreckage. The Mesa had shifted, the tunnels sealed by fallen stone. But Aran, Elira, and Vaerin emerged not broken, but reborn.
The world outside had changed.
Where once the sky was red with fire, it now held rain. Not cleansing. Not pure. But real.
In the city of Arvelith, the Flamebound who had hidden for generations returned. Guided by Aran's example, they lit new hearths, not for war, but for healing. The emberborn children were taught to shape fire not into swords, but into songs.
Elira stood beside Aran as he met the leaders of fractured realms. Her voice reminded them that hope was not just a word, but a choice. And when she spoke of what they had faced, few could look away from the promise that still shone in Aran's eyes.
Vaerin vanished again — off to chase whispers, hunt monsters, or perhaps escape the softness of peace. He left behind only a flask and a single note: "Try not to burn down the world without me."
Aran smiled at it every morning.
But even peace has a shadow.
One night, Aran stood alone in the Flame Hall — the place where the Oathbrand now rested, sealed in a pillar of glassfire. He placed his palm on it and whispered:
"Not forgotten. Just forgiven."
And the flame pulsed once in answer.