Elara fell.
Not in the way one might fall through air or water—but through time, through memory. The narrow fissure beneath the oak had devoured her like a living mouth, the roots closing above like lips sealing a secret.
And now, there was nothing but the sensation of descent.
Her golden magic coiled around her like a second skin, flickering with every heartbeat. Down and down she went, air turning colder, denser. Until—
She landed.
Not hard, not soft. Just… there.
The chamber she stood in was vast and circular, carved from black stone that shimmered with veins of crimson. It pulsed faintly, as though breathing with her. A spiral of runes etched the walls—ancient, unreadable, but humming with power she knew in her bones.
The Vault of the First Flame.
She didn't need anyone to tell her its name.
The moment she breathed in, the magic surged up from the floor like a whisper: You are home.
