The voidstorm raged around the spire as Raine and Sylara ascended its obsidian slope. Every step was a battle—against wind, ash, and the shrieking wails of creatures clawing up the flanks of the structure. Lightning crackled from the clouds above, striking the ground with the wrath of an angry god.
Behind them, the battlefield burned.
Elira and Vorn fought alongside hundreds of brave souls, their line holding against an ever-growing tide of Voidspawn. Magic collided with darkness, steel rang against bone, and blood soaked the cursed soil. It was war in its purest form, and the outcome would shape the fate of Astralis.
But Raine's focus was on the summit.
He and Sylara reached a ledge that overlooked the crater—the land around it twisted and blackened, writhing with unnatural energy. The Flame pulsed within Raine's chest, pulling him forward.
"There," he said, pointing to a circular platform suspended by columns of swirling void-light. At its center hovered a sphere of pure darkness, tethered by chains of energy to the spire itself.
"The source," Sylara whispered.
They stepped onto the platform, the air heavy with pressure. The void pulsed once, sensing their presence.
A voice echoed from the darkness.
"Flamebearer."
It was ancient. Ageless. Neither male nor female, but something between.
"You who gather echoes. You who think yourself free."
Sylara drew her blades. "Show yourself."
The sphere of darkness contorted, stretching upward until it formed a towering figure—tall, robed, and faceless. Its hands were claws made of shadow and starlight.
"I am the Wound," it said. "The fracture left when your kind severed the truth from the world. I am not here to destroy. I am here to restore."
Raine narrowed his eyes. "Restore what?"
"Obedience. Order. Astralis was never meant to burn so brightly. The Flame is an error. I am the correction."
The Flame surged in response, surrounding Raine with a golden aura. "You're afraid."
The Wound tilted its head. "I am ancient beyond fear."
"Then why speak?"
The creature's silence was answer enough.
It lunged.
Sylara was faster. She met it head-on, her blades clashing against its ethereal form. Raine joined in, the Flame forming a shield that absorbed the Wound's sweeping strikes.
They fought in unison—Sylara's elegance and speed countering Raine's raw power. For every strike they delivered, the Wound responded with impossible force. The platform trembled with each blow, the chains anchoring the void core shaking violently.
"You are fragments," the Wound said, recoiling from a blast of Flame. "Memories pretending to be men."
Raine clenched his fist. "I am no one's memory. I'm my own story."
He slammed his palm against the center of the platform.
The Flame roared to life.
A golden beam shot from the orb he carried, connecting to each of the chains. They ignited, unraveling the magic that held the void gate open.
The Wound screamed.
It surged toward Raine, claws outstretched—but Sylara was there. She intercepted the blow, her body crackling with void-light. Pain flared in her eyes, but she held firm.
"Finish it!" she shouted.
Raine didn't hesitate.
He unleashed everything.
The Flame burst from him like a second sun, enveloping the platform in radiant light. The void recoiled, the spire shuddering under the pressure. The core cracked, spilling streams of starlight and shadow.
The Wound shrieked, trying to flee—but the Flame caught it, burning away its form.
One final cry echoed through the world—then silence.
The spire crumbled.
—
They awoke on the battlefield below. Rubble rained from the sky, but the voidstorm had ceased. The sky above was clear for the first time in weeks, stars blinking through the blue.
Raine turned to Sylara. She was bruised, her armor scorched, but alive.
"You okay?"
She smiled weakly. "I'll live."
Around them, survivors rose from the ashes. Elira limped toward them, flanked by Vorn and several Flamewardens. "You did it."
Raine stood, helping Sylara to her feet. "No. We all did."
He raised the orb.
It had changed—no longer glowing with fiery light, but now pulsing with soft warmth. A sun at peace.
"The Flame has no more echoes," Raine said. "No more fragments. We've made it whole."
A wind swept the field, carrying away the last of the ash. The people around them bowed—not in worship, but in respect.
Raine looked to Sylara, his hand finding hers.
And in that moment, he knew.
The future would not be easy. But it would be theirs to shape.
Together.