Nine years later
The world was not healed.
But it was healing.
In the new capital of Haldenreach, a statue stood in the garden of living fire — sculpted not from gold or bronze, but obsidian and vine-covered stone.
It bore no face.
No name.
Just two hands: one open in peace, the other curled in resolve.
At its feet, a plaque read:
"We remembered.
We chose.
We carried the flame forward — not to burn, but to light the way."
Children played beneath it.
Inside the university built where the old Dominion throne once stood, a woman moved through halls of humming lanterns and ancient scrolls.
Serenya Valir — now called the Flamekeeper — no longer wore the robes of a priestess or the armor of rebellion. Her garments were simple, her eyes kind, her voice weathered but unwavering.
She taught memory.
Not myth.
She spoke not of prophecy, but of choice.
Far across the southern borderlands, where the Ashlands had once devoured entire provinces, a man stood over new farmland — his boots worn, his back strong, his sword buried beneath the roots of an old olive tree.
Kaelen Virelth had no titles.
He had a daughter.
And a story he only told once a year — at night, by firelight, when the wind was quiet enough to carry the sound of embers.
Their daughter, Lira, had eyes like dawn.
When she first touched an old ember in the archives, it lit for her — without pain, without prophecy, without burden.
Just warmth.
Elsewhere, not all were at peace.
There were those who still whispered of the Flame as a weapon. Who longed to wake it again. Who believed burning it all would still be cleaner than fixing what remained.
But they were not many.
And they were no longer unopposed.
Because those who remembered — chose.
Not once.
Not long ago.
But every day.
To be more than what came before.
To light the fire within, and never let it consume.
And deep beneath the mountain —
The Vault still waited.
Not sealed in fear.
But resting in hope.
Its fire no longer the world's final threat…
…but its quiet, enduring promise.