Here, time no longer flowed.
The "sky" shimmered with drifting constellations — not stars, but souls. Echoes of those who had tried and failed to breach the final gate.
Elira walked beside Aran in silence. Below them, nothing — above, everything.
"It's quiet," she murmured.
"For now," he said.
Then came the others.
Not enemies. Not illusions. But versions — Arans from paths unchosen, bearing scars and strength. They said no words, only watched. And one by one, they raised their blades in silent recognition.
"You carry our promise," one said, stepping forward. He was old, weary, but whole. "Don't let it die at the end."
Elira bowed her head. "He won't."
The path lit with golden fire.
They were ready to face the end — not alone, but as the final echo of every Aran who chose love over ruin.