---
The eighth realm welcomed them with a cruel gust of wind and a horizon cloaked in ash.
Mountains of obsidian rose jagged against the blood-orange sky, their peaks smoldering with embers that refused to die. Lava rivers split the land in crimson veins, and sulfur hung thick in the air. Arinthal narrowed her eyes against the heat.
"This is the Embercoil," she muttered. "Once a land of song and flame. Now, only the latter remains."
Aria tightened the strap of her leather tunic and glanced at the map they'd salvaged from the last realm. A red circle pulsed above a mountain that seemed to be bleeding fire.
"Another Echo is there?" she asked, shielding her eyes.
Lyrien nodded grimly. "And another servant of Xandros too, no doubt."
They set out in silence, the scorched earth crunching beneath their boots. For hours, they trekked through the oppressive heat. The silence was broken only by the occasional crack of lava bubbling or distant roars echoing through stone canyons.
But the silence weighed differently now.
It wasn't the silence of strangers walking beside each other. It was the silence of people who had cried, bled, and stood back-to-back in battle too many times to need words. Still, something lingered—an unspoken thought in Aria's chest that kept tugging at her ribs.
She fell back, walking beside Arinthal. "He never talks about it, does he?"
Arinthal glanced at her. "Lyrien?"
Aria nodded. "What happened when he left to find the flower dust. What he saw. He brushes it off like it was nothing, but… there's something he's hiding."
Arinthal exhaled slowly. "He lost something there. Not a thing, not even a person, but a piece of himself. I see it every time he stares too long at nothing."
Aria looked ahead at him. His posture was always so controlled—alert, sharp—but his eyes gave him away. They were constantly watching, yes, but searching too. As if for something lost.
Arinthal touched Aria's shoulder lightly. "When he's ready, he'll tell you. He trusts you more than you know."
Aria didn't answer, but she smiled faintly.
That night, they camped in a cave behind a waterfall of magma. The heat shimmered off the walls, but a cooling spell from Arinthal made it tolerable. Lyrien sat cross-legged, sharpening his blades with calm efficiency. Aria watched him for a while before finally breaking the tension.
"You know," she said, poking the fire with a stick, "you never told us what it was like. The realm you went to."
Lyrien looked up, his blade still in hand. He hesitated.
"I saw a world devoured by silence," he said. "A place where even the wind had stopped. The sun never rose. Time didn't move. I wasn't just alone—I was forgotten by everything. Even myself."
Arinthal sat up straighter. Aria leaned in, her heart in her throat.
Lyrien's voice was quieter now. "The dust I brought back—it didn't just come from a flower. It was forged in the heart of a dying world. I had to barter memories to find it. Give up the sound of my mother's voice… my sister's laugh."
Aria's eyes watered. "Lyrien…"
He met her gaze. "I did it so you could have a chance. So the curse wouldn't consume you. It was worth it."
She didn't say anything. She just scooted closer and placed her hand over his. For a moment, his fingers twitched beneath hers, then slowly relaxed.
Arinthal nodded approvingly. "You both carry so much. But now, we carry it together."
That night, they fell asleep not as warriors on a mission, but as people who needed each other to breathe.
---
They reached the foot of the mountain by dawn. A jagged path twisted up its side, each step scorched and unstable.
Halfway up, the wind began to howl, carrying a scent of burning feathers.
"Something's coming," Arinthal warned.
And then it did.
Out of the smoke burst a creature of wings and flame—a PhoenixWarden, Xandros's seventh sentinel. Its wings spanned twenty feet, and its eyes glowed like molten gold. Lava dripped from its talons, hissing as it hit the ground.
The trio didn't speak. They moved as one.
Lyrien sprinted forward, drawing its attention. The phoenix screeched and unleashed a wave of fire. Lyrien dove and rolled, the flames grazing his cloak. Aria extended her hands, focusing on the energy around her. She could feel the mountain's pulse—the breath of flame and ash in every stone.
She reached into herself, the mark on her palm glowing. The scar sizzled with pain, but this time she embraced it.
"Arinthal, now!" she yelled.
Arinthal raised her staff, channeling a barrier around Aria. The phoenix charged, wings leaving scorch marks in the air. Aria screamed and released a pulse of energy. The mountain shook, the lava veered aside, and the phoenix was slammed into the rocks.
But it wasn't enough.
The beast rose again, angrier. It opened its beak and unleashed a sonic roar that fractured stone.
Lyrien dashed up its back, blades slicing deep into feathered joints. The phoenix shrieked. Aria raised her hands again—but her energy faltered. The curse resisted. Her body buckled.
"Not now," she groaned, dropping to one knee. Pop
The phoenix turned toward her, eyes blazing.
Then Lyrien was there, shielding her. "Get up, Aria!"
"I—I can't—!"
"Yes, you can. Look at me!"
She looked into his eyes. Not angry. Not afraid. Just there. Real and solid.
"You're stronger than this. I've seen it. We need you."
Aria clenched her fists. The mark on her palm burned, and this time, she welcomed it. A scream tore from her throat as power surged from her palm—pure energy, golden and bright—blasting the phoenix backward into the lava below.
It screeched once more before vanishing in flame.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Aria panted, collapsing to the ground. Arinthal knelt beside her, casting a healing spell. Lyrien dropped down and gave her a crooked smile.
"You've really got a thing for dramatic finishes."
She laughed, despite herself. "You're just mad I stole your thunder."
"Thunder?" he scoffed. "Please. That was clearly lightning."
They laughed—really laughed—and for a while, the heat didn't seem so bad.
---
Inside the heart of the mountain, they found the fragment of the Echo. It pulsed above a pool of lava, suspended in a crystal cage.
Aria stepped forward. The mark on her palm glowed. She reached for it.
As her fingers brushed the cage, pain shot through her body—but something else too. A memory not hers. A battlefield. A tower of obsidian. Lord Xandros, shrouded in shadow, raising his hand and tearing the sky apart.
She gasped and yanked her hand back.
Arinthal steadied her. "Did you see something?"
Aria nodded. "He's getting stronger. He knows we're close."
Lyrien frowned. "We take it anyway."
They did. As the fragment merged with Aria's mark, she felt another part of herself click into place. But it came with weight—like holding back a flood.
When they emerged from the mountain, the sky had softened into twilight.
They sat near a cooled patch of stone, resting.
Lyrien handed her water. "How's the hand?"
Aria looked at the mark. It pulsed faintly, but the pain was gone.
"I'm okay," she said. "Thanks to you."
He shrugged, looking out at the ash plains. "You'd do the same for me."
She smiled. "I already have."
He looked at her, and something passed between them—quiet, uncertain, but real.
Arinthal broke the moment with a gentle cough. "We're more than halfway there. But the worst still waits."
Lyrien stretched. "Then we stay ready."
Aria looked at them—two souls bound not by fate, but by choice. Friends who had become her strength.
"We'll make it," she said softly. "Together."
The flames behind them cast long shadows, but ahead, the stars of the next realm glittered. And beneath them, the ground trembled—not with fear, but with promise.
---