Before Eira could rise from the pull of the mirror's magic, it tightened around her like a second skin—clinging, whispering, pulling her deeper still.
And suddenly… she was not herself.
She was him.
He stood alone beneath a sky scorched in gold and blood.
Ash drifted like snow, silent and ceaseless. The city burned behind him, towers melting into ruin, the screams of mortals distant and fading. Time slowed in this moment. Memory curled around the edges of vision.
Valtherion, the Keeper of Silence, the Forgotten God of Truth, stood upon the highest spire of the ruined Flame Palace, staring down at a figure below—her.
She knelt among the destruction, radiant even in ruin. Her armor cracked. Her hair, once like fire, was matted with soot. Yet her eyes burned, defiant as ever.
Vaelaria.
His voice was thunder, but wrapped in sorrow.
"You would throw it all away? For them?"
She rose slowly. "Not for them. With them."
Valtherion clenched his fists, veins of silver glowing beneath his pale skin. He had no weapon. He had no need of one. The gods had fallen long ago—he, the last among them.
"You are not meant for their world. You burn too brightly. Even now, I feel the Veil breaking because of you."
Her lips quirked into something between a smile and a plea. "Then let me burn it down."
He descended.
Each step cracked the stone underfoot as he moved toward her, the wind parting around his presence. When he reached her, he did not strike. He knelt before her instead.
"You were made from the same flame that birthed stars. You were not made to die."
Vaelaria looked at him with tears burning at the edge of her eyes.
"Neither were they. But they did. And I will not let more die in our name."
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek. Even now, she trembled at his touch. Not from fear—never that. But from something deeper. Something once shared.
"You could stay," he whispered. "Not as their god. Not as my rival. But as my queen. We could build it all again—beyond the Veil. A realm of our own."
Her heart twisted inside his chest. For a moment, his heart did too.
But her answer was already written in her blood.
"No, Valtherion. If I leave now, I become what they fear. I forget. I choose again, every time… to be the flame that dies for them."
He stood then. Silent.
The last breath of a god stilled the world around them. Even the fires dimmed.
"If I cannot have you… then no one shall."
The sky above broke open with a crack, as he spoke the curse that shattered fate.
"You will burn. Again and again. And each time, you will forget this moment. You will forget me. You will love others. And I will wait."
Lightning forked across the sky. The Veil split open.
And then—
A scream tore from her lips—not of pain, but of betrayal. And as the world was pulled into oblivion, he reached toward her—not to destroy her, but to hold her one last time.
She slipped from his grasp.
The memory cracked, fracturing like glass.
Eira stood in the mirror's reflection, gasping.
Tears slid down her cheeks.
It had not been rage that fueled Valtherion.
It had been grief.
He had cursed her not out of cruelty—but because he could not bear to lose her. Because he thought he was saving her from herself.
But in doing so, he had damned them both.
She stepped back, the memory fading behind her, still echoing in her chest. Her hands trembled. Not from fear—but from recognition.
She remembered him now. Not as an enemy.
As a lover.
Long, long ago.
Before Eira could rise from the pull of the mirror's magic, it tightened around her like a second skin—clinging, whispering, pulling her deeper still.
And suddenly… she was not herself.
She was him.
He stood alone beneath a sky scorched in gold and blood.
Ash drifted like snow, silent and ceaseless. The city burned behind him, towers melting into ruin, the screams of mortals distant and fading. Time slowed in this moment. Memory curled around the edges of vision.
Valtherion, the Keeper of Silence, the Forgotten God of Truth, stood upon the highest spire of the ruined Flame Palace, staring down at a figure below—her.
She knelt among the destruction, radiant even in ruin. Her armor cracked. Her hair, once like fire, was matted with soot. Yet her eyes burned, defiant as ever.
Vaelaria.
His voice was thunder, but wrapped in sorrow.
"You would throw it all away? For them?"
She rose slowly. "Not for them. With them."
Valtherion clenched his fists, veins of silver glowing beneath his pale skin. He had no weapon. He had no need of one. The gods had fallen long ago—he, the last among them.
"You are not meant for their world. You burn too brightly. Even now, I feel the Veil breaking because of you."
Her lips quirked into something between a smile and a plea. "Then let me burn it down."
He descended.
Each step cracked the stone underfoot as he moved toward her, the wind parting around his presence. When he reached her, he did not strike. He knelt before her instead.
"You were made from the same flame that birthed stars. You were not made to die."
Vaelaria looked at him with tears burning at the edge of her eyes.
"Neither were they. But they did. And I will not let more die in our name."
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek. Even now, she trembled at his touch. Not from fear—never that. But from something deeper. Something once shared.
"You could stay," he whispered. "Not as their god. Not as my rival. But as my queen. We could build it all again—beyond the Veil. A realm of our own."
Her heart twisted inside his chest. For a moment, his heart did too.
But her answer was already written in her blood.
"No, Valtherion. If I leave now, I become what they fear. I forget. I choose again, every time… to be the flame that dies for them."
He stood then. Silent.
The last breath of a god stilled the world around them. Even the fires dimmed.
"If I cannot have you… then no one shall."
The sky above broke open with a crack, as he spoke the curse that shattered fate.
"You will burn. Again and again. And each time, you will forget this moment. You will forget me. You will love others. And I will wait."
Lightning forked across the sky. The Veil split open.
And then—
A scream tore from her lips—not of pain, but of betrayal. And as the world was pulled into oblivion, he reached toward her—not to destroy her, but to hold her one last time.
She slipped from his grasp.
The memory cracked, fracturing like glass.
Eira stood in the mirror's reflection, gasping.
Tears slid down her cheeks.
It had not been rage that fueled Valtherion.
It had been grief.
He had cursed her not out of cruelty—but because he could not bear to lose her. Because he thought he was saving her from herself.
But in doing so, he had damned them both.
She stepped back, the memory fading behind her, still echoing in her chest. Her hands trembled. Not from fear—but from recognition.
She remembered him now. Not as an enemy.
As a lover.
Long, long ago.