The wind shifted that morning.
Not with heat — but with silence.
A silence that seeped into the bones of every monk, every warrior, every broken brick of the Sanctuary. It was the kind of silence that came before something awful. The kind that didn't ask permission — it just warned.
Elliot stood alone on the highest balcony, the scars of the siege still blackened around the stone. He didn't feel powerful right now. Not like the scroll said. Not like the Oracle whispered.
He felt… hollow. Like the fire inside him wasn't a weapon anymore — but a question he didn't know how to answer.
> "You are a fragment of Vaelion."
"You are not human… not entirely."
He hated how much of it felt true.
---
Below, Kaelith trained with the younger initiates. Her movements were sharp, controlled. But every time she turned, her eyes flicked toward him — not with pity, but with something gentler. Worry.
Elliot hated that too.
He forced himself away from the edge. His body still ached from the Oracle's visions, but worse than the ache was the pressure building inside him — a heat beneath the skin, always there now. Waiting.
---
By noon, the horns sounded.
Not once.
Three times.
Kaelith dropped her blade mid-swing. Monks scrambled from every corridor. Rhaemir appeared, breathing hard, voice hoarse.
> "They're here. The ones the Oracle warned you about."
---
Elliot didn't need to ask who.
He could feel them.
Like the sun had torn open, and the sky was bleeding fire.
---
They came in armor of bronze and bone, cloaked in silks that shifted with holy runes. Their faces were covered — blank gold masks with no mouths, no eyes. But they moved with purpose. Too perfect. Too ancient.
The Messengers of Flame.
And they did not march — they glided.
No weapons drawn. No shouts. Just that haunting stillness, and the heat that bent trees and cracked the ground as they passed.
Elliot stepped through the gates, Kaelith beside him. Dozens of Order monks stood ready, but it felt pointless.
One of the Messengers raised a single hand.
The world bent around his fingers like paper.
---
Then he spoke — but not aloud.
Straight into Elliot's mind.
> "You carry the Hollow Flame."
"Return it."
Elliot staggered back, blood dripping from his nose. Kaelith grabbed his arm. "Elliot?"
He wiped it. Stared at the golden mask. "No."
> "Then burn with it."
---
They attacked — not with fire, but with light.
Not holy. Not righteous.
Just raw, divine punishment.
The first monk it touched vanished. Just gone. Not dead — erased.
Screams filled the Sanctuary. The walls cracked. Shields shattered.
Elliot dropped to one knee, clutching his chest.
And then…
He let go.
> "I won't let you erase what I am!"
The flame surged. Gold. Pure. Wild.
But this time, it didn't just burst outward.
It formed wings — made of light and rage — as if Vaelion himself had returned.
The runes burned through Elliot's skin. His voice was not his alone.
> "You want the flame? Come take it."
---
And the sky above Eldraya opened in fire and war.
---