The World-Flame towered behind them — a living firestorm of pure creation. Every promise ever made, every love ever sworn, pulsed within its core.
Aran and the False Aran circled each other in the ash-lit dark.
"You were always afraid of power," the False Aran spat. "Afraid to take what you were meant for."
"No," Aran said. "I was afraid of becoming you."
Their blades clashed, the sound like thunder tearing through time. Sparks scattered across realities. The Gate behind them cracked further, bleeding raw essence into the void.
The dagger pulsed beneath Aran's cloak.
Elira, shielding their son on the steps of the World-Flame, called out: "Aran! The blade!"
But he hesitated.
He saw the weariness in his enemy's eyes. The pain. The sorrow.
The False Aran was not just a monster. He was a mirror.
A reflection of what might have been — had Aran broken.
"I don't want to kill you," Aran whispered.
The False Aran's flames faltered.
That was enough.
Aran surged forward — and with the dagger's edge, struck not the heart… but the flame that bound them both.
Light exploded.
The fire screamed.
The Gate shattered.