The Spire of Flames stood silent.
Its halls echoed with memory — of battles, of loss, of vows whispered beneath ancient skies.
Elira stood alone in the sacred chamber, her fingers brushing a faded sigil on the wall — the one she once carved for Aran.
He joined her moments later, silent.
"They'll remember him," she said.
"Not for his fire," Aran replied, "but for the light he left behind."
Outside, young Flamebound initiates trained with wooden swords and glowing hearts.
One of them turned — bright-eyed, fierce — and smiled with a fire too familiar to be coincidence.
Elira chuckled. "The world always finds a way."