The sun rose over Emberfall like a hesitant promise. Its golden light spilled across the scorched stones and blackened battlements, bathing the ruins in soft warmth. Smoke curled gently from cracks in the earth, and the Ember Heart, now dim and dormant, pulsed once—then fell silent.
Aeren stood alone at the edge of the caldera, gazing at the horizon. His hands still tingled from holding the flame-forged sword, even though it had vanished into light. He felt hollow, but not in a bad way—more like a vessel finally emptied of fear, doubt, and the weight of legacy.
Elira joined him, arms crossed, hair windswept and wild. "You planning to stare dramatically into the distance forever, or just until your eyebrows catch fire again?"
He smirked. "I was going for brooding hero. Did it work?"
"Eh, six out of ten. Too sincere."
They shared a quiet laugh. Then silence fell again—not awkward, but easy. Comfortable.
"I thought we'd die back there," he admitted.
Elira nodded. "Same. Still might. But at least we've got time to make questionable decisions before the next disaster."
A beat passed.
Then Aeren glanced at her, hesitant. "Would asking you to dinner count as one of those decisions?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You want a date?"
He shrugged. "Or a training session disguised as one. I'm flexible."
Elira's grin grew. "You've got guts, Flameboy. Alright. Dinner. Just don't bring any fire-breathing carrots."
"Deal."
Elsewhere in the ruins, the rest of the Flamebound gathered. Kaelen meditated on a broken spire, blades resting across her knees. Bryn slept with a boulder as a pillow, snoring like an avalanche. Zephren was sketching storm runes into the ash with a stick, humming softly. Lyra stood beside Kiran, watching as he gently placed a glowing ember into a carved box.
"Souvenir?" she asked.
"Memory," Kiran replied. "Of who I was. So I never become him again."
She touched his shoulder. "You won't. Not while we're here."
He gave her a rare smile. "Thank you."
That night, they built a fire. A real one, not summoned or conjured, but built the old way—with flint and dried wood and shared laughter.
They ate charred mushrooms, drank questionable stew, and told stories.
"I once punched a storm goat in the face," Bryn boasted. "Saved an entire village of sheep."
Kaelen rolled her eyes. "You tripped and fell into the goat. That's not the same thing."
"I tackled it. Strategically."
Zephren chuckled. "Storm goats are a menace, to be fair."
Aeren leaned back, Elira at his side. "So… what now?"
Lyra stirred the fire with a stick. "The world's watching. Magic's returning, fast. We'll be needed. Not as heroes. As guides."
Kiran nodded. "We teach them how to build something better."
Elira sighed. "Can we at least take a week off first?"
"Or two," Kaelen agreed. "I've got sleep to catch up on."
They all laughed. The fire crackled. Overhead, the stars blinked into existence, brighter than before. As if the sky itself had been reforged.
And in the shadows beyond, something stirred.
Not evil. Not darkness.
But something new.
Because when you burn away everything you were… you get to choose what comes next.
And the Flamebound Six? They weren't done yet.
Not even close.