It took three days for Elliot to open his eyes again.
He didn't wake to fire or prophecy or screams. He woke to quiet.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that feels like the pause before a storm that hasn't yet remembered where to fall.
He blinked against the sunlight pouring through the stone-split ceiling. His body felt like it had been through centuries — muscles heavy, ribs bruised, skin wrapped in gauze and runes that pulsed like the memory of battle.
Kaelith sat beside him, asleep with her back against the wall, arms crossed, one hand still loosely resting on the hilt of her sword — like she hadn't let go of it since the moment he passed out.
He smiled weakly. Of course she hadn't.
---
When she stirred, it wasn't with surprise. Just relief that tried — and failed — to hide in her eyes.
"You're awake," she said, voice rough from no sleep.
"You're still guarding me," he rasped, half a smile.
Kaelith shrugged, looking away. "You exploded."
"I remember," he muttered. "Vaguely. Did we win?"
A pause.
> "You didn't win," she said. "You changed the terms."
---
The Messengers of Flame were gone.
Not dead — just gone. They had retreated not out of fear, but revelation. They had seen something in Elliot no god had prepared them for: humanity wrapped in divinity, choosing its own path — not one written in prophecy.
That shook them.
And maybe, it scared them too.
---
Elliot sat up, slowly. Everything ached.
"What happened after I… did that?"
Kaelith didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a charred relic — a gold shard, shaped like a tear, still warm in her hand.
"This," she said, "fell from the sky the moment you collapsed. The monks think it's a piece of one of the higher realms. Torn loose."
Elliot stared at it. The shard shimmered with divine energy — but twisted now, imperfect. Burned.
> "The gods are cracking…"
---
Later that night, Rhaemir entered Elliot's room.
His robes were singed. His face — usually calm — was lined with worry.
"There's something you should know," he said.
He placed a scroll on the table. Ancient. Sealed with blood and ash.
Elliot frowned. "Another prophecy?"
Rhaemir nodded once. "No. The first one. Written long before the Flame was ever born in this realm. We never translated it because… it was never meant for mortals."
Elliot unrolled it.
The letters shifted as he read, forming words he shouldn't have understood — but did.
He read aloud:
> "When the flame forgets its purpose,
And the gods forget their mercy,
One shall rise.
Not to restore…
But to end what should have never begun."
---
No one spoke for a while.
Kaelith finally whispered what they were all afraid to say.
> "This wasn't a beginning, Elliot. It was a warning."
---
Far beyond the mortal lands, beneath a sky that never saw sun, a god opened its mouth for the first time in ages.
It didn't speak in words.
It breathed.
And across the world, every fire flickered at once — like something enormous had just exhaled… and noticed.
---