They didn’t speak much that morning.

The sun rose blood-orange over the ruined spires of Serentha, bathing the broken city in an almost divine hue. Yet there was no warmth in its light—only the cold aftertaste of power spent, battles won, and truths half-understood.

Auren stood alone at the edge of a crumbled balcony, his white-silver armor dulled with soot and celestial residue. The blade strapped to his back still pulsed faintly with karmic energy, like a heartbeat remembering its purpose.

Lyra approached slowly, carrying two pieces of flatbread scavenged from her pack.

“Breakfast,” she offered, tossing one to him.

He caught it, smirking.

“You’re spoiling me.”

“You’re grim company without food. And I can’t have the so-called Flamebearer sulking before noon.”

They sat in silence for a while, overlooking the wildlands beyond the ruins. In the distance, smoke rose from a far-off hill, hinting at other travelers or something far less welcome.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Lyra asked, eyes still on the horizon.

Auren shook his head.

“Not names. Not faces. But sometimes… I get flashes. Like broken mirrors—reflections I can’t hold.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not in the way you’d expect,” he replied. “It’s like missing a part of your soul you never knew you had. There’s a hollow echo when I fight—like I’ve done it all before, but the reasons are gone.”

She looked at him carefully.

“Maybe you’re meant to forge new reasons this time.”

Later that day, as they explored the deeper parts of Serentha’s archives, Lyra stumbled upon an old memory crystal embedded in a stone pedestal. Auren's presence caused the runes to flicker and awaken.

A voice—ancient, female, and weary—echoed into the chamber.

“To the bearer of the karmic flame, should you find these words… know this: The gods are not saviors. They are gamblers. And you, brave knight, are their final wager.”

“If you seek justice… look beyond blood. Look beyond vengeance. The cycle must break not with fire—but with choice.”

The light dimmed. Silence returned.

Auren stood still for a long time.

“What if I’m not ready to be someone else’s final wager?”

Lyra stepped beside him.

“Then you change the rules of the game.”

That night, beneath the quiet stars, they sat around a small fire. No grand trials. No ancient monsters. Just the wind, the night, and the slow crackle of embers.

“Lyra,” Auren said quietly. “If this… journey ends badly, if I lose control again…”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do,” he pressed, “promise me you’ll stop me. No matter what.”

She looked at him—really looked—and nodded once.

“I swear. But only if you promise me something in return.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t die before you find out who you really are. And don’t let your past life be the only one that matters.”

He smiled faintly.

“Then it’s a pact.”

They sealed it with silence.

Yet somewhere, far across the world, a crow with eyes of glass watched them from a dying branch. And in the whispering wind, something dark stirred.

“Not all flames are born to burn.
Some are meant to illuminate the path we feared to walk.”
                                                             — The Pact of Serentha