The world seemed frozen just after the miracle. The clearing where Arien and Nyra had been was now only a contour, seen through the golden mist that had taken over the forest. Light slowly passed between the leaves of the trees, drawing golden and blue patches on the ground—living memories of the flower that had changed them both. The horizon was somewhat blurred, as if everything was suspended between what had already passed and what is yet to come. The trees bent slightly over the trail, forming arches of shadow and promise.
The path ahead seemed like a corridor from a dream. Golden leaves fell slowly, landing on thick roots that drew ancient patterns on the ground. The smell of damp earth mixed with the sweet, light scent of magic, making the air heavy and almost tasting like rain. The silence was not just a lack of sound: it was a pause full of meaning, as if the entire forest was waiting, attentive, for the next move from the two.
With each step, Arien felt the blade of the Static Flame pulsing in his hand, as if it already knew what was coming. The air was charged, and the anticipation made even his skin shiver.
Nyra walked beside him, feeling the new healing power still vibrating within her. Her gaze, once always alert and suspicious, now had a calm, almost happy glow, like someone who finally feels she can protect not only herself, but also her friend at her side.
— "I never thought that passing through a sanctuary would leave us so open like this," she whispered, gently touching a golden leaf that floated in the air.
Arien looked at her, trying to see any sign of doubt in Nyra. But he found only confidence, and something more: a tranquil acceptance of pain, as if she had learned to see beauty in her own scars.
— "Maybe being this open is the price to heal what never healed," Arien replied, smiling sideways, even as he felt the weight growing in his arm.
The trail led the two to a corridor of large thorns, each one shining under the dim light of the blade. It was as if each thorn kept a memory, waiting to be touched to release a secret.
At first, the ground was firm, but soon it became softer and warmer, smelling of resin, dried blood, and broken promises. There, the silence was total.
Arien felt his breathing grow heavy. The arm holding the blade began to tingle, a slow and growing pain, as if something were putting down roots inside him.
Nyra noticed and came closer, worried. — "Are you okay? You're restless... you're different."
He tried to disguise it, but it was no longer possible to ignore. His pulse throbbed, and a golden line shone from his elbow to the palm of his hand.
— "I... something's wrong," he murmured through clenched teeth. The heat rose quickly, and he fell to his knees, the blade trembling in his hand.
The world became somewhat blurry. The trees seemed to recede, shadows stretched out like a giant's fingers. The pain in his arm became fire, a different fire—it didn't burn the body, but seemed to consume memories, invade thoughts, force Arien to relive decisions, mistakes, and promises.
Nyra knelt beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder. — "Arien, look at me. Don't let the fire take you."
Arien's skin began to glow, painted blue and gold, as if little lights ran under his skin, from his fingers to his shoulder. The glow spread, gaining strength, as if something very alive was awakening inside him. His whole arm became hot, the veins shining like threads of fire, and it was as if soft flames climbed, dancing along his skin. He felt pain, but it was a different pain, full of meaning, as if each pang was a key opening something new in his body. It was a pain that felt like the beginning of something, not an end—almost a rite, something required by the Sun Flower so that he could receive what only it could give.
— "It feels like I'm going to explode..." he gasped, tears falling, a mix of pain and surprise. "What's happening to me?"
Nyra, feeling the energy vibrate, touched Arien's forearm with both hands. The healing power tried to calm the flames but was repelled—it wasn't a wound, it was a change happening.
In the center of the clearing, the roots began to move, forming a tight circle around them. From the ground, a voice echoed—deep and strong, as if it spoke with all the trees at once:
— "Bearer of the Blade, your promise has been accepted. But every promise, to be reborn, must burn one last time."
The blade in Arien's hand shone so bright that the world around seemed to dissolve into blue and white light, cutting through the clearing's shadows and throwing live reflections onto the trees and Nyra's face. In the next instant, the stone in the hilt released the blue flame, which detached in an almost liquid wave of energy. The glow slowly climbed up Arien's arm, lighting each vein, each muscle, to the tips of his fingers. The flame began to spin and curl between his fingers, as if it were a wild animal learning to trust its new owner. When the light joined together, it took the form of a serpent of static fire, blue and gold, wrapping itself around Arien's hand, sparking and undulating, sending out small sparks that illuminated the ground and trunks around.
Arien's scream was lost in the air, muffled by a thunder that seemed to come from the center of the earth, a hollow and unique sound. For a moment, everything stood still, as if even the forest held its breath. In his palm, the blue fire condensed, spinning like a miniature galaxy, shining so bright it seemed capable of illuminating the whole night. It was like seeing a star about to be born, pulsing with living energy, light, and heat. Sparks leapt between his fingers, tracing golden lines in the air, like threads of electricity dancing under his skin. The blade shattered into thousands of points of light, each one spinning around Arien's hand, until they rejoined—but now, what remained was a whip of flames and sparks, blue and gold, flexible and alive like a snake of light, crackling with little pops as it coiled around his arm. Nyra, eyes wide, saw the whole scene reflected in dozens of tiny dew drops on the surrounding leaves, as if the entire forest had recorded that moment.
Arien fell forward, supporting himself on his hands. The new power pulsed strong in his chest, as if it were a second heart.
Nyra held his face, making Arien look at her. — "You're here. Can you hear me?"
Gradually, the pain gave way to a sense of strength he had never felt before. Arien raised his eyes, now shining blue, and smiled, exhausted and happy at the same time.
— "I am... and I think I've never been so awake," he whispered, raising his newly transformed arm.
The static flame whip cut through the air, and the nearby thorns pulled away, as if afraid to be touched. The energy followed his will, responding to each memory or desire.
But, at that moment, a different shadow slid between the trees, and the silence changed. Arien and Nyra were on alert. From the golden mist, four figures emerged: travelers marked by golden cracks on their skin and eyes glowing a strange blue—they were people corrupted by the Static Flame, half human, half living memories.
The first of them, a thin woman with an empty gaze, pointed a cracked blade at the two of them. The second, a man with a tangled beard and arms covered in burned symbols, advanced angrily, shouting:
— "That power should be ours! The fire doesn't choose who deserves it!"
The other two closed in, advancing with stiff movements, each holding weapons made of burned branch or black stone.
Nyra tried to speak, her voice calm: — "We didn't come to fight. There's still salvation for those who remember."
But the corrupted did not listen. Rage and despair guided their steps.
Arien felt the whip pulse. On impulse, he spun his arm and lashed the static flame whip to the ground in front of the attackers. The fire streaked the air and exploded in a blue line, forcing the first to retreat. The second attacked Nyra, but she touched his shoulder and released a wave of healing energy. For a second, the man froze, looking at his hand as if he almost remembered who he was—but the Static Flame pulled him back.
The fight was short, intense. Arien's whip traced curves of blue and gold light, striking the chest of the empty-eyed woman and disarming one of the others. The sparks leapt from branch to branch, reflecting on Nyra's frightened face. With each blow, Arien saw flashes of memories—laughter, cries, a forgotten name, the image of Mahran being consumed by fire that did not burn, but erased.
The woman staggered, falling to her knees before Arien, her previously dull eyes now filled with deep sadness, as if for a moment she had returned to being herself. Her thin hands grabbed his arm with surprising strength, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse but full of urgency and truth:
— "They were waiting... it wasn't by chance... Mahran... all that pain, it wasn't just fate... the flame was summoned... it was summoned by someone... for you..."
For a brief moment, Arien saw a spark of humanity in the woman's eyes, almost like a plea for forgiveness or a late warning. And then she released his arm, her body slowly collapsing onto the leaves, as the golden marks disappeared and the heavy silence once again took over the clearing.
The others retreated, disappearing among the branches, taking with them the weight of all the corrupted memories.
Nyra looked at Arien, frightened:
— "They knew about you, Arien. They knew."
The silence became heavier after what the fallen woman had whispered. Her words seemed to echo inside Arien, beating with his heart: "Mahran was not chance... the flame was summoned... for you." He stared at the emptiness left by the corrupted, feeling his legs weaken, as if he were suddenly in the middle of the same fate that had taken his village.
Nyra came closer, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and respect. She touched Arien's shoulder, and for a moment, the silence weighed between them, filled only by the sound of their own breathing.
— "What do you feel?" she asked, her voice low but firm.
Arien stood still for a while. The flame whip wrapped around his wrist as if wanting to protect him, then dissolved into sparks and returned to its blade form. He looked at Nyra, the woman's words still spinning in his head.
— "It's as if every memory has turned into a spark, and now everything in me burns to understand what happened. I don't want to be just a piece anymore—I want to know what to light, what needs to burn, and what must survive."
Nyra nodded, holding his gaze. — "You have this power for a reason, Arien. Maybe it's not just to defend yourself, but to find the answers they tried to hide."
He took a deep breath, and together they took the first steps down the corridor of thorns, which seemed to tighten even more after the battle. The path became a labyrinth of shadows and sharp walls, but Arien, feeling the power in his hand, cracked the whip and opened a way through the barbs, burning only as much as needed, without destroying what didn't need to be destroyed.
As they walked, Nyra dodged a thorn that glowed red and looked at him: — "Why do you think the Flower chose you? Why you?"
Arien coiled the whip between his fingers, the energy rising up his arm, his heart still pounding. — "Maybe because my anger and my hope come from the same fire. The fire that remembers, the fire that doesn't let you forget, but also the only one capable of transforming."
Ahead, semi-transparent figures began to appear, full of old pains. Some reached out to them; others simply watched, still, forever trapped in their memories.
Arien raised the whip, and the figures retreated. The blue glow cut through the mist of memories, making space to pass. One of them, with a sad look, murmured:
— "If remembering hurts, forgetting is being lost."
Nyra nodded, her eyes moist. — "We came to remember. We came to heal."
The forest responded with the sound of leaves, approving Nyra's words.