The valley no longer whispered of war. Instead, it breathed—a rhythm of wind through green shoots, of water trickling where once there was fire. The sapling at the center of the crater had grown taller in the days that followed, its leaves shimmering with a light too gentle to be divine and too steady to be human.Liora watched it each morning as the mist rolled low over the hills. She had taken to walking barefoot across the soil, feeling the heartbeat of the land through her steps. The world was different now—quieter, yes, but not empty. It was rebuilding itself in slow, unseen ways.Kael had made a home of sorts from the remnants of the fallen stones. A small shelter by the ridge, nothing grand, but enough to keep out the night wind. He was there when she returned from her walk, sharpening a blade that hadn’t seen blood in weeks.“You’re up early again,” he said without looking up.“I like to see the light before it settles,” she replied, sitting beside him. “It reminds me that it’

Seasons had begun to change again. The air was no longer filled with the chill of ruin, but with the warmth of growing things. Grasses bent softly under the breeze, and the trees around the valley stretched their branches higher each day, as though they were learning to reach for the sun again.Eryndor had become more than a settlement—it was a home. Smoke rose from cooking fires in the mornings, and children’s laughter echoed through the hills at dusk. Where ashes once smothered the ground, flowers bloomed in wild colors.Liora stood by the edge of the valley, watching the people carry water from the stream. They were stronger now, no longer walking like ghosts through a grave of memories. Each face she saw carried purpose. It was strange, and beautiful, to see humanity moving forward.Kael joined her, brushing dirt from his hands. “They’ve started carving again,” he said.“Carving?” she asked, glancing at him.He nodded toward a group gathered near the Flame Tree. “Symbols. Stories.

The centuries had folded over each other like soft waves against a forgotten shore.What had once been battlefields were now meadows. What had once been prayers were now lullabies. The wind no longer howled — it hummed.And at the heart of that stillness stood the Flame Tree.It was older than memory now — its trunk thick with silver veins, its roots like sleeping serpents buried deep in the valley’s soil. The branches spread wide enough to catch every dawn and cradle every night. When the sun rose, the tree glowed with a faint golden shimmer; when the moon came, it turned to silver, quiet and endless.The valley below had become a living tapestry. Houses of smooth stone and pale wood curved along the riverbanks. Lanterns made from glass petals floated above the streets. Children ran between fountains, their laughter spilling like music across the morning air.To most, this world had always been peaceful. They had never seen blood darken the soil or the sky burn red with divine wrath.

The night after the awakening was unlike any Lyra had ever known.The stars burned brighter — thousands of them, sharp and white, as if the heavens had drawn closer to see. The Flame Tree’s glow pulsed through the valley, faint but steady, painting every blade of grass in soft gold.Lyra sat at the base of the trunk, her hands still dusted with soil from where she’d buried the orb. Her heartbeat matched the rhythm of the light beneath her palms. She felt neither fear nor exhaustion, only a strange calm, as if she’d found the piece of herself she hadn’t known was missing.It was quiet. Peaceful.Until she heard it — a whisper in the wind.“Lyra…”Her name. Spoken softly, almost like a memory.She lifted her head. “Who’s there?”No one answered, but the air shimmered faintly. The leaves rustled in waves, and from their golden light a shape began to form — a flicker of red and silver flame spiraling together until it took on the outline of two figures.Lyra’s breath caught.It was them.

The dawn was pale and thin, as though the sun itself hesitated to rise.Mist rolled across the fields, thick and low, muffling the sounds of morning. The Flame Tree’s glow reached to the edge of the valley, a final warmth brushing Lyra’s back as she adjusted the straps of her pack.Riven stood nearby, his cloak drawn close, his gaze fixed northward. The path that led beyond the valley wound through silver grass and into the dark ridge of hills — the place the villagers once called the Land Without Echoes.Lyra looked back one last time. The valley shimmered beneath the soft light, peaceful and golden. Children chased each other near the riverbanks; elders knelt by the fields, whispering blessings.For a heartbeat, she wanted to stay.But the pulse within her chest — the spark — throbbed softly, reminding her that the flame did not exist only for comfort. It existed to endure.She turned to Riven. “Are you ready?”He gave a short nod. “You lead. I’ll follow.”“Not follow,” she said, a