They built no fire that night. The storm had passed, and the air was calm, touched by a rare stillness. The Warden slept—truly slept—for the first time in years, his face unguarded beneath the stars.
Kael sat at the edge of the camp, sword resting across his knees, watching the darkened horizon. "What now?" he asked quietly.
Liyara joined him, wrapping her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "We carry it. Like we said."
"But to where? The Flame still exists. The Cycle… still calls."
She glanced at him. "So we make sure it calls for the right reasons."
He looked over at her, eyebrows lifting. "You think we can change it?"
"I think," she said, "that for the first time, it might listen."
Behind them, the Warden stirred but did not wake. The sigil, dim now, pulsed once in Liyara's hand, then faded entirely.
Kael breathed in the quiet. "Then we go to the heart of it. To where it all began."
Liyara nodded. "To end it right."
Above them, the stars blinked back into view, scattered like sparks across the sky. Not a promise—but a possibility.