The first light of morning broke across the valley — pale, hesitant, and red as spilled blood.

The ruins of Lira’s Reach smoldered quietly beneath it.

Eiden stood among the dead, a tattered cloak around his shoulders, the faint gold veins across his arm dim in the cold air.

He hadn’t spoken since the night.

Not since the sky tore open and Mira’s scream became silence.

Every breath still felt like it carried smoke.

---

The wind shifted, carrying the echo of the horn — distant, hollow.

The Empire was closing in again.

He looked down at his hand — at the dull shimmer of light beneath his skin — and for the first time, he hated it.

The thing that had saved him had also taken everything else.

“You burn too bright… that’s why the world tries to put you out.”

Her voice still haunted him.

Mira’s voice — fading in the storm, and yet somehow still there, tangled with the whispers of the Lumenflame inside him.

He knelt and pressed his palm to the dirt.

A faint ripple of gold spread outward, sinking into the ground like a sigh.

“I won’t waste it,” he murmured. “Not again.”

---

A voice cut through the still air.

“You’re standing in a graveyard, boy. Best not talk to ghosts unless you want them listening back.”

Eiden’s eyes snapped open.

A figure approached from the mist — tall, wrapped in dark red robes marked with broken sigils. A mask of steel covered half his face, and chains clinked faintly as he walked.

The man’s presence felt wrong — like a storm wrapped in human skin.

But his aura wasn’t hostile. Not yet.

 “Who are you?” Eiden demanded, hand sparking faintly with light.

The man chuckled. “Names are for the living. But if you must — call me Serin. I was once like you… before the fire chose me.”

 “You’re a Lumen?”

 “Was.” His tone darkened. “Now I’m something else. Something the gods forgot to erase.”

He stopped a few paces away, studying Eiden’s veins. “So the Eighth spark survived. The Empire will not be pleased.”

Eiden’s grip tightened. “You know about me?”

 “The whole continent does, boy. When a god’s light erupts in the middle of a slaughter, people notice. The priests call you a heresy. The rebels…”

A small grin.

“They call you hope.”

---

Serin’s cloak shifted as he tossed something at Eiden’s feet — a medallion of tarnished gold.

It bore the same symbol that had burned across the sky when Mira died.

 “What’s this?”

 “A key. And a curse. It leads to the ruins of Lethra — where the Lumenflame was first kindled. You’ll find answers there. And enemies. Mostly enemies.”

 “Why help me?”

Serin looked away, his half-mask catching the light.

 “Because I once carried the same light… and it burned everything I loved. Maybe if you reach the end, you’ll find a way to do what I couldn’t — tame it.”

He turned to leave, his voice echoing faintly:

 “Head east by the dead river. The Empire has sent their Inquisitors. If they find you before you reach the ruins… there won’t be enough of you left to bury.”

And then he was gone — swallowed by the mist.

---

Eiden stared at the medallion in his hand.

It pulsed once — warm, faintly alive — and for a heartbeat, he felt something pull inside him.

A direction.

A call.

He looked east, toward the horizon, where the sun struggled through the clouds.

“Lethra…” he whispered. “Then that’s where it begins.”

He lifted his hood and started walking.

Behind him, the wind swept over the battlefield — and the ashes stirred, glowing faintly gold for a moment, as if answering his step.

A whisper drifted through them, soft and broken.

“Keep your promise… Eiden…”

He froze, turning back.

But there was nothing — only wind and firelight.

Still, he smiled faintly, a tear cutting through the soot on his face.

“Always.”

---