The Vale of Mirrors was nothing like Aric imagined.
Instead of shimmering lakes and silent hills, it was a valley swallowed in mist, with black trees bent from some ancient weight. Pools of water dotted the ground, still and perfectly reflective—so clear that when Aric stepped past one, he saw not his face, but someone else's staring back.
He stopped cold.
The reflection blinked—once—and vanished.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
Maelis, a few steps ahead, turned. "See what?"
Dain was staring at the mist. "This place is wrong. Feels like walking through someone else's dream."
They moved carefully through the vale, following the faint tracks carved into the earth. It was said the seer's home lay at the heart of the valley, a house that stood where no roads led, and only those the vale accepted could find it.
The trees grew thicker. The fog heavier. But the blade in Aric's hand remained warm, its glow guiding them like a lantern in the dark.
At last, they saw it—an old stone house nestled in a circle of silver-leaved trees. Its roof was thatched, but the air around it shimmered faintly, like heat rising from stone.
Maelis lowered her bow. "That's it. Has to be."
They approached cautiously. The door opened before they touched it.
An old woman stood inside, her eyes pale white and her skin marked with ember runes. She looked not at them, but through them.
"I smelled the blade," she said. "And the storm tied to it."
Aric stepped forward. "We came for answers."
"I know why you came. I know what you carry," she said. "The question is—are you ready to hear what you don't want to know?"
Aric nodded.
She turned and walked inside without another word. They followed.
The interior was cluttered but warm—filled with scrolls, herbs, candles, and mirrors of all sizes. Some reflected true. Others twisted the reflections. One mirror showed Aric holding a broken blade. Another showed a city burning behind him.
The seer sat on a stool. "Place the sword on the table."
Aric obeyed.
She placed one hand above it, not touching, and her voice dropped into a whisper.
"The Emberblade is not just a weapon. It is memory. A legacy carved in fire. Every bearer left a piece of themselves behind... even those who never should have held it."
Her hand trembled.
"There is another," she said. "One who once bore the blade but gave in to the dark flame. He still lingers. Not alive, but not dead."
"The First Flame?" Aric asked.
She nodded slowly. "He has no name anymore. Just purpose. He wants the blade returned… because without it, he is incomplete."
Aric frowned. "Can he be stopped?"
"If you burn hotter than him. If you do not become what he became."
Dain crossed his arms. "And if he gets the blade?"
The seer looked up, eyes glowing faintly. "Then the world will see fire that does not end."
A silence hung heavy in the air.
Finally, Aric asked, "How do I stop him?"
"You don't. Not yet. You must find the others."
"What others?"
She pointed to the blade. "The echoes. The past bearers. Scattered through the world in hidden places. If you face them, learn from them, master their trials… the blade will become whole."
Maelis stepped forward. "Where do we start?"
The seer smiled, thin and sad. "At the edge of the world. Where fire meets ice. Where the first betrayal began."
Aric picked up the blade again. Its glow steadied. Stronger now.
One step forward.
One more trial in the journey.
And the flame inside him whispered:
Remember.