The days that followed were quiet, almost too quiet. Aran and Elira took shelter in the high meadows above the Valley of Whispers, where the wildflowers now grew in patches scorched by ancient magic.
Though Elira healed slowly, her magic flickered back with each sunrise, her laughter a balm to Aran's soul. But beneath it all, the Oathbrand pulsed in his chest—a reminder that their journey was far from over.
One evening, under starlight, Aran sat sharpening his blade when Elira approached, her cloak drawn tight against the mountain chill.
"You've changed," she said.
"So have you."
They sat in silence for a while, the wind carrying the scent of embergrass and distant fire.
"The Flame in you... it's stronger than anything I've ever felt," she whispered. "But it's not just fire. It's me."
Aran nodded. "It always was. That's what the vow meant."
Elira looked down at her hands, glowing faintly with gold. "Then we share it now. Your flame. My light. One promise."
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. "No more cages. No more silence. Whatever comes—we face it together."
And in that quiet moment, where the world held its breath, their flames merged.
A spark that would set fate itself ablaze.