The First Flame (Epilogue)
The cliffs rose like broken mirrors from the land—jagged towers of glass and stone that stretched into clouds.
Mike stood at the base of the range, staring up at them.
They reflected nothing.
No sky.
No sun.
Not even his own face.
Ren adjusted his pack beside him, quiet.
Aero flanked them, massive and silent. Her feathers rippled like quicksilver in the wind. Her talons left imprints in stone.
They had followed the path for days now, crossing rivers that flowed backward, forests that changed shape in the night, and ruins that whispered in voices only Mike could hear.
The world wasn't just changing around them—it was responding.
To him.
To the bow.
To the presence behind the gate.
Mike felt it always now. Not just in dreams, not just in visions, but in his bones. A tension beneath his skin. Like something inside him had been awakened—and it hadn't finished rising.
They reached the summit of a long, spiraling pass as the sun dipped below the horizon.
There, cradled between peaks, stood the City of Mirrors.
Not a city of buildings, but of illusions—structures made of light and memory. Towers formed from scenes of the past flickered in and out of view. Streets bent and folded into themselves. And above it all hung a single, floating orb—dark, glasslike, cracked and pulsing faintly with red light.
Mike didn't speak. Neither did Ren.
Because something was watching them.
Even Aero lowered her head.
Then came the voice—not from above, not from the sky, but from within.
"You were not the first."
Mike's knees nearly buckled.
"You will not be the last."
The city shifted.
And a figure stepped from the base of the farthest tower.
Tall. Robed. Masked in polished black. Three circles etched in its chest—fractured. Its hands were long and still.
It didn't speak.
But the world listened.
The wind stopped. The light dimmed. The path behind them—gone.
Only the figure remained.
Mike stepped forward.
"I don't fear you."
The figure didn't move.
Mike raised the bow. It pulsed once in his grip—silver script glowing down its limbs.
"Because fear doesn't get to win."
Still, the figure didn't speak.
It only raised one hand—and pointed toward the cracked orb.
Then vanished.
A new path shimmered to life, leading deep into the heart of the city.
⸻
They made camp beneath a stone arch carved with symbols Mike had never seen before.
That night, the dreams returned.
But not of Jake.
Not of Tom.
He saw others.
Other Speakers.
Boys. Girls. Warriors. Healers.
Each holding a bow.
Each fading into nothing.
He woke in a cold sweat.
The carving of Aero lay beside him. She had nudged it into his hand while he slept.
He looked up at her.
"We're going to end this," he whispered.
Aero chirped once, low and calm.
Ren sat nearby, sharpening a new spear.
"We could turn back," Ren said. "We could try to find a way home. Take what we've learned and warn others."
Mike shook his head.
"If we don't go forward, no one else will."
He stood slowly, eyes fixed on the mirrored path ahead.
⸻
By morning, the mist had returned.
The city shifted again—this time to reveal something new.
At the city's center stood a massive stone gate, cracked and humming with energy. It looked like the one Mike had activated—but older, darker. More alive.
Not waiting to be opened.
Waiting to be freed.
Mike approached.
The bow on his back burned cold.
The carvings around the frame told a story—a warning.
"The First Flame must not rise."
Beneath that:
"Only the Speaker may return it to silence."
Ren stepped beside him. "What does that mean?"
Mike looked into the swirling darkness beyond the gate.
"I think," he said, "this isn't about getting home anymore."
He turned to Ren. To Aero.
"This is about stopping something that never should've woken up."
Behind them, the first flame pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
And then it began to crack open.