Before they could follow, something stirred beneath the throne.
A claw — massive, jagged — tore free of the ash. The wyrm wasn't dead.
It had never died.
Its breath was not fire, but memory — and as it rose, Aran saw flashes of this world's history: Elira slain at the gates of Vareth. Their son raised in shadows. The people kneeling to a king forged in vengeance.
This wyrm had been bound by that king.
"It's not attacking," Elira said in awe. "It's mourning."
Aran stepped forward. The beast lowered its head. Its eyes, clouded with age and grief, met his.
"You're not him," it rumbled. "But you carry the same soul."
"I am Aran Flamewrought," he said, placing his hand against its scale. "And I will undo what he became."
The wyrm nodded once — and a shard of crystal fell from its chest.
A memory blade. Forged from the regrets of the dead king.
Aran took it, and flames coiled around its edge.
"It's time we stop following him," he said. "It's time we hunt."
Elira gave a fierce smile. "Then let's bring the fire."