The fire never truly dies.
Even years after the Vault was sealed and the world began to mend, Aran could still feel it — a quiet warmth beneath his skin. Not a warning. Not a curse. A memory. A reminder that something once broken could burn again, brighter.
He stood now at the edge of the Ember Road — a half-forgotten path carved through the highlands of Olyr. To the north, smoke coiled from ruined towers. A village had sent word: strange lights in the sky, livestock vanishing, shadows moving like thoughts.
He wasn't answering as a king, nor as a chosen one.
He was answering as a man who once made a promise — to never ignore a cry for help.
"Will you always chase the fire?" Elira asked behind him.
Aran glanced back. Her robes were traveler-worn, but her gaze had not dulled. In her hand, she held a satchel of healing stones. And in her smile, there was no fear — only trust.
"I won't chase it," he said. "But I won't run from it either."
Elira nodded. "Then let's walk the road together."
Their son stood beside her, shorter but brave-eyed. He clutched a wooden practice sword carved with phoenix wings.
Aran raised a brow. "You're coming too?"
The boy grinned. "Someone has to make sure the stories stay interesting."
Aran laughed, the sound catching in the wind like music.
Together, they set off down the Ember Road — a new journey, not written in fire and war, but in steps, choices, and the quiet promise of guardianship.
For even after the grandest flames are tamed…
...the embers still light the way.