There's no time.No space.Only flame.
It surrounds me—not burning, not harming. Just... showing.
Flashes of something deeper than memory. A truth beneath skin and name.
I'm Elira of Hollowhearth.
But I wasn't always.
A mountain wreathed in fire.Hands, mine-but-not, stretched over a city crumbling to ember.Laughter—mine.A voice crying out: Vaerin, stop—please—
But that's not my name.
Is it?
I fall.
But not alone.
Warmth steadies me. Riven's hand on my shoulder, firm.
"Elira—hey—breathe. You're here."
I blink. My knees are on ash, my breath shallow. The Echo still stands before us, shrouded in mist.
But it's not attacking.
It's waiting.
I look around. The Circle—Sira, Asher, Elina, Dorian, the Runeward twins—stand ready. But none strike.
We're all waiting.
Then the Echo speaks again, voice soft as snowfall on flame.
"You are not Elira Flameborne.You are her echo, as I am mine."
The images return—stronger now.
A girl. Not me, not quite. Long dark hair, crimson robes, standing beside Vaerin on the walls of Embervault.They're smiling.Hands touching.Sigils glowing in tandem.
Then—
Fire.Screams.A Circle torn apart from within.
I see her raise a blade of burning light. I see him turn into something not human.
She tried to stop him.
She failed.
And the throne below the Vault was shattered.
"Elira," Asher says gently. "What did you see?"
I breathe out slowly. "My past life. Or hers. Flamebound. The one before me."
Elina steps forward. "She was the last true Flamebearer before the Circle fell. Her name was also Elira."
I nod slowly.
"But she loved Vaerin. Or who he used to be."
Sira's eyes narrow. "That means this Echo… it's not just a remnant. It's what's left of him."
My chest aches with fire. Not pain. Not fear.
Grief.
The Echo watches us.
Then kneels.
Its voice lowers to a whisper.
"I remember... the way she looked at me. The way she feared me in the end.""I thought becoming the flame would save us. Save her.""But I am the cost. I am what was left when love forgot my name."
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
"Vaerin…" I whisper.
It doesn't respond. Only fades—back into mist.
The throne pulses.
The Circle surrounds it, and the ash rises in silent currents around our feet.
Dorian murmurs a ritual of anchoring. Sabine strengthens it with sigils.
But I know what this is.
This is a grave.
Of a boy who became a god to protect what he loved—and lost himself.
And a girl who died trying to stop him, only to be born again.
Chronicle Entry – Elira of Hollowhearth
I am not her.
And I am not him.
But I remember them both now.
And that might be worse.