When the Flame Sleeps

The Gate was gone.

Or rather — transformed.

Where once stood a twisted spiral of power and memory, now bloomed a tree of radiant light, its roots dug deep into the cracked stone of Elarion. Its leaves shimmered gold and silver — the union of two legacies.

Elara and Aelira stood at its base, hands still entwined.

Their bond had been tested by memory, fire, and pain. Now, it was sealed by choice.

Miraen approached slowly, her eyes wide in awe. "You… changed it."

Elara nodded. "No more choosing between destruction or servitude. The Gate lives now — not as a weapon, but as a guide."

"And Elion?" Kael asked, stepping closer, blade still drawn.

Aelira's voice was low. "Gone. The Gate did not allow him passage."

But far in the distance, thunder rolled across the mountains — a low growl that didn't come from nature.

Kael's brow furrowed. "We should move. Whatever balance you created… it shifted something else."

As they prepared to leave the ruins, Elara paused.

A breeze brushed her cheek, warm and strange — carrying a whisper:

"Not all hungers are born of fire."

---

That night, as the group camped at the edge of the forest, Elara dreamed.

But it wasn't a vision.

It was a warning.

She stood in a land of shadows and ash, beneath a sky that wept stars. In the center, a woman cloaked in dusk reached out with a hand of void.

"Your flame lit the world," the woman said. "But mine was buried. Forgotten."

The woman's eyes glowed — not red, not gold, but deep obsidian.

"You were not the only one born of balance, Elara Wynne."

Elara woke with a gasp, heart pounding.

The fire beside her had gone cold.

And in the dark, something watched from the trees.