The capital of Solmar burned in the horizon — not with fire, but with light. Golden towers shimmered like blades, their tips piercing the clouds. Between them wound the dark rivers of smoke from a thousand forges.

Mira’s breath caught. “It’s… beautiful.”

Eiden didn’t answer.

Beauty was a lie cities wore to hide their rot.

They crossed the eastern bridge, moving with the caravans that entered before curfew. No one paid attention to two soot-stained travelers. The guards barely looked up; their faces hidden behind mirrored masks.

For the first time since Vale, Eiden felt something close to safety.

It scared him more than the Harvesters ever did.

---

The Hollow Step Inn sat in a narrow alley, tucked between a weaponsmith’s forge and an apothecary. The sign hung crooked, the paint long faded.

A single lantern burned above the door — its flame an odd color, white with a gold ring at the center.

When they entered, warmth hit them — the smell of stew, wet boots, and spiced ale.

A handful of travelers sat around wooden tables, talking quietly. A bard hummed softly by the fire.

No one looked twice.

Eiden led Mira to a corner table. “Stay here. I’ll ask about a room.”

At the counter stood a woman — tall, wrapped in a dark shawl. Her hair was silver at the edges, her eyes a pale blue that almost glowed.

She didn’t look up as he approached. “Two travelers from the east,” she said before he could speak. “The road was cruel this week.”

Eiden froze. “How do you—”

She lifted her gaze, and for a second, he forgot to breathe.

The faint gold reflection in her pupils mirrored his own veins.

“I listen to the whispers that follow the light,” she said.

Then, lower: “You’re carrying something you don’t understand, aren’t you, boy?”

Eiden stepped back slightly, hand near his dagger. “Who are you?”

“Someone who remembers the dawn.”

The same words the flute man had said.

Mira’s eyes widened. “You— you know about the Twelve Flames?”

The woman’s expression darkened. “So the Warden still wanders.”

She turned the sign on the counter — Closed. The inn went quiet as the last few patrons left, unaware of the tension that lingered behind them.

When the door shut, the woman spoke again.

“My name is Lyra Vance. I once carried a Lumenflame… before the gods fell.”

---

Eiden stared at her. “You— survived that long?”

“Not alive,” she said with a faint smile. “Not quite dead either. The flame slows time for those who’ve bound their hearts to it. A curse disguised as eternity.”

She gestured toward his arm. “Yours is new — raw. That mark means it chose you, not the other way around.”

Eiden looked down at the runes that shimmered faintly beneath his sleeve. “It burns when I use it.”

“It should,” Lyra said softly. “You’re feeding it pieces of yourself. Each spark you draw from it takes memory, feeling, even the color of your soul.”

He swallowed. “How do I stop it?”

Her gaze turned distant. “You can’t. But you can learn to balance it — before it burns the world around you.”

Mira glanced between them, voice small. “Then… can you teach him?”

Lyra studied Eiden for a long moment.

“You’re not ready. But the world won’t wait.”

She turned, lifting a small pendant from around her neck — a fragment of glass etched with a golden rune, identical to the ones glowing under Eiden’s skin.

“This belonged to the Second Flame,” she said. “A friend long gone. If your light resonates with it, the others will sense you soon.”

“The others?”

“The remaining sparks,” Lyra said. “Seven of us once guarded the dawn. Now, most hide, some serve the Empire, and one… hunts you.”

Eiden’s breath caught. “A Harvester?”

Lyra’s eyes hardened. “No. A fallen Lumen. One who believes the light should rule again — by force.”

The firelight flickered between them, throwing long shadows against the walls.

Mira’s voice trembled. “Then what do we do?”

Lyra reached beneath the counter and pulled out a folded map — old, worn, marked with sigils that glowed faintly when touched.

“You go north, to the ruins of Elderpath. There lies the resting place of the First Flame. What you find there will decide what kind of god you become.”

Eiden froze at the word.

“God?”

Lyra met his eyes. “Every Lumen walks that path eventually — to either ascend or burn away. The light doesn’t stay human forever.”

---

Thunder rolled in the distance. The lantern flickered.

Lyra sighed. “Rest here tonight. The road ahead doesn’t forgive the weary.”

As she turned away, the golden mark on her neck flared once — and for a moment, Eiden saw her reflection in the mirror behind the counter.

Her shadow was not human.

---

Later that night, Eiden couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, hand over his glowing arm, thinking of Lyra’s words.

“What kind of god you become.”

Outside, the rain returned.

And somewhere in the city above them, a tower bell tolled — slow, distant, and hollow.

Far away, within the Imperial Sanctum, the veiled woman stood before a mirror of pure light.

“Two sparks have met,” she whispered. “The chain begins to form.”

Her reflection twisted — and from the light stepped another figure, cloaked in black, with golden cracks glowing beneath the skin.

“Then it’s time,” he said, voice like grinding stone.

“Let the Eighth burn.”