The sky above the rebuilt realm glowed with quiet fire.
Atop the new Spire of Flames, Aran stood before an assembly of the surviving Flamebound, Celestials, and skyborne tribes. In his chest, the ember gifted by the World-Flame pulsed like a second heart.
Elders whispered of prophecy.
A mortal who would hold the Crown of Ember — not to rule, but to guide. And though Aran refused thrones and titles, they placed the circlet of living flame upon his brow anyway.
Not as king.
As keeper.
Elira stood at his side, the ember in her own soul newly awakened. Together, they bore the weight of survival — and of every realm tethered to the promise they had protected.
But peace was not a silence.
It was a breath before the next echo.