He had no name.
At least, not one he remembered.
The walls of his cage were frozen dreams, enchanted with binding runes and old spells from the Crown's lost archives. He had tried to count the days, but time didn't move in the tower—not in the usual way.
Sometimes he heard voices outside. A girl laughing. A whisper in the walls. Once, a melody so familiar it cracked something inside him.
His chains were made of silence. Not metal, not magic—but forgetting.
Then, one morning, something changed.
A single flame bloomed at the base of his prison.
It flickered blue and gold. His eyes—storm-colored, once dimmed—reflected its light.
Memory surged.
A battlefield. A brother. A name.
"I'm… Roen," he whispered, and the ice groaned in protest.
Far above, Aris paused. Her hand hovered over the map piece with his sigil. "Ah," she murmured. "Welcome back."
The shard pulsed faster.
Roen clenched his fists. "You should've let me die."
Aris grinned. "But you're far too interesting for that."
Back in the south, Aeren and Elira passed the first ruined border town. Its wells were frozen, but glyphs of resistance still burned faintly on the walls.
Aeren touched one.
"We're not the first to resist," he said.
Elira nodded. "Let's make sure we're the last who have to."
And far to the north, the prisoner remembered his fire.
And the world trembled at the thought of him being free.