When the dust cleared, only one man stood.
Aran.
But not unscathed.
The dagger had burned through his arm, branding the final sigil of sacrifice into his skin. The False Aran lay nearby — not dead, but diminished. His armor gone. His rage extinguished.
Elira rushed to him. Her eyes full of tears — joy, fear, and awe.
"The World-Flame…" she began.
He turned.
It now stood calm — no longer a storm, but a hearth. The chaotic fire of endings had become a quiet, eternal light.
He walked to it, slowly.
And as he reached the flame, it bowed. As if even creation itself had recognized his promise.
From its core, a single ember floated out and entered his chest.
A new mark burned over his heart — shaped like Elira's sigil, crossed by the Flamebound rune.
The mark of a Chosen Flamebearer.
A protector not just of realms — but of love itself.
"I kept the promise," Aran said.
"And I saw it," Elira whispered. "Every time I looked into your eyes."
The world shifted around them — rebuilding. Healing.
And at last, the war was over.