The light of the Sacred Room had barely faded when silence fell once again—profound, reverent, alive. Elior stood from the throne slowly, the golden warmth of the flames still pulsing beneath his skin like the memory of a dream he didn't want to wake from. No one spoke. Around him, the High Council and the gathered assembly simply watched, as though afraid that even a whisper might disturb the sacred weight of the moment.
Then came a soft chime, distant and pure.
The ground beneath the dais shimmered. Glyphs faded. The center of the platform cracked open like a blooming flower, revealing a spiral staircase made of translucent light. It descended deep below Thal'Nora, into the roots of the city where even the sun had never touched.
Chippa stepped forward. He looked at Elior with something between pride and sorrow. "This is the Fifth Stage," he said quietly. "Where no one has walked in over a hundred years. Not even I."
Elior looked down at the glowing staircase. The staff in his hand felt heavier than ever, but it also felt right. He gave a single nod, then stepped into the spiral.
And the world fell away.
The descent felt timeless. As he moved downward, the light shifted, not just in color but in emotion—gold turning to deep amber, then crimson, then silver-white. Whispers echoed around him, not in words, but in fragments of memory. Laughter. Cries. Songs. The echoes of bearers past.
At the end of the descent was a chamber unlike anything Elior had ever seen. It was vast. Perfectly round. The walls were alive with golden light, laced with rivers of crystal that pulsed like living veins. It felt less like a room and more like the inside of something ancient—something that breathed. The air was thick with magic, heavy with memory.
Floating in the center was a massive sphere of amber-colored crystal—the Golden Globe. It hovered silently, suspended by unseen magic. Within it, barely visible through the translucent glow, lay a figure.
Elior's breath caught in his throat.
Inside the globe… was Lioran.
Clad in armor the color of fire and sky, hands folded over a broken sword, his body was untouched by time. His face was peaceful—almost too human. A single flame flickered at his heart, pulsing like a heartbeat waiting to be remembered.
Elior took a trembling step forward.
"He's real…" he whispered. "He was always real…"
The chamber answered, its voice echoing from the glowing walls.
"This is the Heart of Flame," it said. "Where the first bearer rests. His soul has long returned to the stars… but his body remains, preserved in stillness, until the Flame chooses again."
Elior stared, his chest tight with emotion.
"I always thought I was following his footsteps," he said quietly. "But I wasn't just walking in his shadow. I was… part of it."
The chamber pulsed gently with golden light.
"No," it said. "You were not part of his shadow. You were born of his spark. The legacy was never behind you. It lived within you."
Then, the flame at Lioran's heart flickered—and flared.
A sudden blast of golden fire burst forth from the crystal, surging toward Elior's staff. The moment it struck, the world exploded.
Fire swallowed him—not burning, but awakening.
Elior was lifted from the ground, surrounded by spiraling golden light. The staff in his hand glowed with unbearable brilliance, and his eyes were filled with visions—memories not his own. He saw Lioran's final stand, the desperate last battle, the choice to sleep instead of die. To wait… for someone who could carry the Flame when the world needed it again.
He saw faces he didn't know, battles never told in stories, skies filled with fire and songs sung in languages long forgotten. He felt pain—ancient pain—but also joy. Triumph. Hope.
He cried out—not in pain, but in truth.
And then, slowly, the light faded.
Elior's feet touched the ground again. The golden globe dimmed, its flame now still.
But Elior—he no longer looked like a boy who bore someone else's name.
He looked like someone who had finally discovered his own.
He opened his eyes. They burned with clarity.
"I understand now," he said, softly. "The Flame wasn't just passed to me. It waited for me."
The voice of the chamber returned, calm and resolute.
"The Fifth Stage is complete. The staff is whole. The Flame lives. Let the new age begin."
The city of Thal'Nora stirred with new life.
Above, the Auraclad Walls shimmered with golden patterns, projecting visions of Elior's final trial across the skies. All across the realm, people looked up and saw what had occurred beneath the city—the boy who bore Lioran's name no longer stood in another's shadow.
He had become the bearer.
The wind sang across the spires. The bells of Thal'Nora rang, not by hand, but by magic awakened by ancient command. The sound echoed through every hall, garden, and street.
In the Temple of Echoes, elders bowed. In the sky-bridges, watchers wept. Even the beasts in the Forests of Gold paused, ears turned to the hum of awakening magic.
And among the crowd above, a child whispered to her guardian:
"He's like a star… that remembers it was once a boy."
All of Thal'Nora bowed—not to a legacy, but to the one who now carried it forward.
The Fifth Stage had ended. The Flame had chosen. And Elior had become its voice.