The sky above the starfield darkened like ink pouring over parchment.
Airam stood still, her knuckles white around the staff as the chained figure of the dark heir dropped to his knees. Golden cuffs burned against his wrists, and light from the approaching Thrones flickered across his strained face.
"They didn't kill me," he said through gritted teeth. "That should terrify you."
Airam stepped closer, warily watching the branded sigils smoldering on the stone beneath them. "Why would they keep you alive?"
The heir raised his eyes to hers—haunted, hollow, defiant. "Because I used to be like you. I was the vessel once. Until I refused to burn what they told me to."
Her breath caught.
"You're lying," she said, though the way her magic buzzed warned otherwise.
He smirked bitterly. "Your flame—our flame—was never meant to be controlled. The First Order created us to be their weapons, not their equals. When I broke free, they erased me from history. You're their second chance."
Airam stared at him, her mind racing. What if everything she knew, even from the Custodian, was only part of the truth?
Before she could respond, the air pulsed—low, vibrating, like a giant heart beating behind the stars.
The Thrones were drawing closer.
One by one, their voices began to echo through the cosmos.
> "Vessel of Breath. Return what is stolen."
> "Or be unmade."
Airam looked up. Seven massive shapes now hovered at the edges of reality—each a throne sculpted from divine elements: flame, bone, void, crystal, storm, time, and light. Their occupants remained shadowed, but she could feel their gazes piercing through her.
> "You are not the first," said one. "But you may be the last."
She raised the staff, fire swirling along its length, voice steady. "Then come and take it."
Silence.
Then—a crack.
The staff in her hand surged, flames spiraling out and burning away the illusion of the starfield.
Airam gasped.
She was back in the temple from before—but now the tree at its center had withered, scorched black. The Custodian lay slumped against its trunk, mask cracked, breathing shallow.
"Airam," he rasped. "They… took it… from me."
She ran to him, dropping to her knees. "Took what?"
"Your past. All of it." He weakly raised a shaking hand, pointing toward a sealed door embedded in the stone wall, pulsing with a golden lock. "They fractured your memory. Hid the truth in pieces. You… must reclaim it."
Airam stared at the door. Something called to her from beyond it—not like the Breath, not like the flame—but like a voice she hadn't heard since childhood.
She stood.
And walked toward the seal.
The moment her hand touched it, the world fractured.
---
Liam…
The old man poured water into a stone bowl, the firelight flickering against the leaves of the forest hut.
"You don't remember it, do you?" the man asked, eyes watching Liam carefully.
Liam shook his head. "I remember protecting her. I remember... falling. And pain. That's it."
"Because they took your memories too," the man said. "You weren't just a soldier. You were a Flamebound. Your line was born to guard the vessel—not serve kings."
Liam's eyes narrowed. "You mean I was... chosen?"
"Not by fate. By her," the old man said. "The first queen chose your ancestor to bind her fire to his blood. That magic still lives in you, Liam."
He stood and turned.
And on his back was a scarred sigil—the same as the mark on Airam's staff.
Liam's heart pounded.
"What does that mean?"
The man looked over his shoulder, solemn.
"It means if she dies… so do you."
---
Airam…
She stepped through the golden doorway.
What lay beyond was not what she expected.
It was her home.
The castle garden.
In full bloom. Untouched.
Birds chirped, the sky was bright blue, and on the swing beneath the flowering tree… sat her mother.
Alive.
Airam froze, tears welling in her eyes. "Mother?"
The woman turned, her face warm, soft. "You found your way back."
"This isn't real," Airam whispered. "You're dead."
Her mother stood and came to her, gently placing a hand on Airam's cheek. "I live here, inside what they tried to make you forget. I sealed the truth when you were a child… to protect you."
Airam's voice broke. "What truth?"
Her mother's eyes filled with sorrow. "You were never meant to be the vessel alone. You were meant to destroy the Thrones. All of them. The Breath wasn't given to you. It was passed down by choice. My choice."
Airam staggered back. "You… you had the flame?"
Her mother nodded. "And now it's yours. But you must do what I couldn't. You must end them."
The garden began to dissolve into light.
Her mother stepped back into the glow.
"Forgive yourself. Trust him. And do not hesitate."
Then—she was gone.
Airam opened her eyes.
The staff now burned with both gold and white flame, runes racing up its length, and across her palm, a new mark burned into her skin.
The mark of the First Flamekeeper.
---
Far away, in the heart of the First Order's celestial court, a horn sounded.
One of the seven Thrones shattered.
Its occupant—gone.
The Order stood in silence.
Then one of them whispered:
> "She remembers."
---