Night had fully fallen.

But it was not the kind of night that brought sleep or stillness.

This one watched.

The trees didn’t sway. The fire didn’t crackle. Even the stars above held their breath—as if afraid that one wrong shimmer might reignite the fury that had just subsided.

Auren sat alone, apart from the camp, facing the horizon where twilight bled into shadow.

His blade rested across his knees, as it often did now—not as a weapon, but as a mirror.

He did not clean the blood on it. Not yet.

“That wasn't just instinct,” he murmured, staring into the steel. “That was memory.”

The flame within him answered, not in words, but in weight.
A quiet heat in his chest. Not painful. Just present.

Behind him, Lyra approached carefully, cloak drawn close. She did not speak at first.

She simply sat beside him, pulling her knees to her chest, eyes locked on the same dark skyline.

“You saved me,” she said softly.

“No,” Auren replied, eyes still forward. “She didn’t come for you.”

“But she could have killed me.”

“She didn’t care about you.”

“Still. You didn’t hesitate.”

He was silent.

Then:

“I didn’t think. That’s what bothers me.”

Lyra leaned back, arms behind her.

“Do you remember her?”

“No.”
His voice cracked on the word.
“But I think… I remember how she died.”

Lyra turned to him sharply.

“What do you mean?”

He gripped his blade harder.

“When I struck her—just before the flame surged—I saw something. A battlefield. Charred ground. Her face… older. Angrier. She was laughing as she bled.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And I was the one who ended her.”

The flame was awakening not just power, but echoes.

He didn’t remember names or places, not clearly. But he felt it.
The weight of swords raised. The warmth of comrades who no longer breathed. The ache of victories that cost too much.

“I’ve killed before,” he said. “Not just as a soldier. As something… more.”

Lyra reached over and touched his arm.

“You’re not that man anymore.”

“Aren’t I?”
He turned to her, voice trembling beneath the calm.
“What if I am? What if the gods didn’t free me from my past… just hid it long enough to break me later?”

“Then we break them back.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

She met his gaze, fierce and unwavering.

“You are Auren Dragmir,” she said. “Knight of the Flame. You may not remember what you were. But I’ve seen what you’re becoming.”

Auren looked away, ashamed of the storm behind his eyes.

But her hand stayed on his arm.

Not forcing him to speak.
Just reminding him he wasn’t alone.

That night, sleep finally came.

And with it—a dream.

Not of flame.
But of a throne.

Shattered. Forgotten. Buried in ash.

And a voice.

Not divine. Not kind.

Just... familiar.

“We are not finished, Knight of Kharon.
You have promised vengeance.
You have unfinished justice.
Wake soon.
Or I will wake for you.”

“The deepest scars are not carved in flesh… but in silence.”
                                                      — Memoria Tenebris, Vol. II