The Oracle Forge was not built by mortals.
It was carved from the bones of a dying star, nested in a Realm that never settled — shifting between time, gravity, and dimension with every heartbeat. Even Kaelen looked uneasy as the Nightingale hovered just above its threshold.
"This place… it thinks," he muttered.
Riven nodded. "And it remembers."
Lyra stood at the ship's ramp, her fingers tightening around the Prime Flame now hovering like a living sun beside her. It no longer needed to rest in her hand — it floated, followed, and pulsed to her heartbeat.
Aeris approached and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You must go alone."
"I figured."
"The Forge won't test your power. It'll test your truth."
Sera frowned. "What does that mean?"
Aeris's voice darkened. "The Forge peels away everything you pretend to be… and shows you what you are, at your core. If you're not ready, it will break you."
Lyra stepped forward without another word.
The moment her foot touched the Forge's surface, the world shattered.
She stood on a battlefield of mirrors.
Each one reflected a different version of herself — thousands of Lyras, all with different scars, different eyes, different lives. Some held spears, others flame, others knives. A few wore crowns. One wore chains.
The Prime Flame hovered above, then dissolved into strands of light, pulling her into the reflection at the center.
Suddenly she was in Veymar, her home city.
But not as it was — as it should have been. Alive. Untouched by war.
She walked the streets where her parents once lived, where laughter had not yet been replaced by ash. Her mother appeared, arms outstretched.
"My little ember," she whispered.
Lyra froze.
"I… I saw you die."
The illusion smiled. "You did. But here, you can stay. Live in what could've been."
Tears welled in her eyes.
The Forge tested not just resolve.
It offered desire.
She turned and ran.
Through the market stalls, down sunlit alleys — until the world fractured again.
She now stood before a throne of obsidian flame.
And upon it — Lyra, draped in golden fire and blood.
This version of her looked down with contempt.
"You could be this," the Empress-Lyra said. "You should be. With the Prime Flame, no one would ever hurt you again. You could make them bow. All of them."
"I don't want that."
"Liar."
Flame erupted, and they clashed.
Each blow shattered another version of her around them. Sparks flew, but Lyra held her ground — not with rage, but restraint.
"I won't become a tyrant to protect the broken girl I used to be," she shouted.
Her other self faltered.
And dissolved into smoke.
Now the Forge pulled her deeper.
She was alone, in darkness, weightless.
Then a voice — not hers — whispered from within.
"You were never meant to wield me."
"You are too raw. Too lost."
"You are not Kaelen."
She clenched her fists.
"I don't want to be Kaelen."
Silence.
Then…
"Good."
The darkness peeled back.
She stood now in a chamber of floating glyphs, each one singing a different note of flame. The Prime Flame reformed before her — not as a weapon, but as a heart.
"Then become what only you can."
"Let your flame not destroy… but remake."
Outside, the Forge roared to life.
The Nightingale trembled.
Kaelen stepped back as a pillar of goldfire erupted from the core, stretching into the fractured sky above.
Riven whispered, "She passed."
"No," Aeris said, eyes wide. "She's becoming."
Lyra emerged from the Forge, walking across burning air, untouched.
Her body shimmered with inscriptions — glowing runes of origin, harmony, and resistance — dancing like tattoos across her arms and collarbone.
Her eyes no longer held fear.
They held light.
She had not just survived the Oracle Forge.
She had rebuilt herself within it.
Back in the Dreadspire, the Seventh General stared into a pool of memory.
She saw Lyra's ascension.
She saw the runes.
And for the first time in eternity…
She felt something twist in her chest.
Regret?
No.
Recognition.