Beyond the coliseum, Nythralis fell silent.
The mists parted as if in fear, revealing the final path—a staircase of obsidian spiraling into the sky, toward a single star pulsing black and violet against the heavens. It was not a sun. It was a wound.
Aran led the way, every step forward burning with resistance. The air thickened, and his vision blurred. Elira stumbled once, catching herself with a flare of inner Flame. Even the ground seemed reluctant to bear their weight.
At the summit stood an altar of polished stone, and above it, suspended like a dying star, was the Hollow.
It was not a being. It was a hunger.
And it spoke—not with words, but with doubt.
"You will fail."
Visions crashed into Aran's mind: Elira falling, his child crying out in a world gone dark, fire turned to ash. He staggered, nearly falling.
But Elira gripped his arm, her presence anchoring him.
"This isn't truth. It's fear. Don't forget who you are."
Aran met her gaze—and in her eyes, he remembered.
The vow.
The love.
The promise.
He drew his sword, and it ignited—not with fire, but with memory. Every battle, every moment with Elira, every spark of hope across lifetimes blazed along the blade.
"I am Aran Thorne," he declared. "I remember. I love. I burn."
With Elira's hand in his, they plunged the blade into the altar. The Hollow shrieked—not in pain, but in realization.
It could not consume what was not forgotten.
The altar shattered. Light surged. The star cracked and crumbled, its whispers silenced.
Below, Nythralis began to dissolve—freed from its prison of sorrow.
Aran and Elira stood amidst the collapse, holding each other, flames dancing in their eyes.
And far above, the sky welcomed the dawn.