The valley had changed.
As Eren and Elira exited the Forge of Naming, the sky above them shifted clouds parted without wind, revealing a pale sun that cast silver light instead of gold. The grass beneath their feet no longer whispered in ash; it stood still, waiting.
The flame had been unbound.
Akreth, reborn, no longer burned with hunger. It thrummed with a steadiness that Eren could feel through the hilt, through his arm, into his chest. The runes no longer pulsed with fragmented fury they flowed like breath, like language being spoken in a rhythm older than time.
Elira looked at the sword with a mixture of awe and fear.
"That's not the same weapon you drew weeks ago."
Eren nodded. "No. And I'm not the same man."
They made camp not far from the valley's mouth, in a shallow gorge where the wind couldn't reach them. The fire they built didn't flicker wildly it burned clean, as if even flame now recognized Eren's presence.
That night, Elira asked him the question that had been building since the Forge.
"What happens now?"
Eren sat with the blade across his knees. He didn't look up.
"I'm going to the Threshold again," he said. "This time, I won't stop."
She didn't respond immediately.
"You're sure?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'm ready."
She studied him, then nodded. "Then I'll get you there."
The next morning, they began the return journey.
But something had shifted in the world around them.
Birds that hadn't sung for days now stirred in the trees. Wind that once carried only ash now tasted of frost and stone. Even the earth beneath their boots no longer trembled beneath the memory of fire it held firm.
The world had noticed the change.
But so had the others.
They weren't a day out of the valley when the first sign came smoke, fresh and rising, not far to the west. A scout fire. Not Circle, not Covenant. A signal.
Elira spotted it first.
"Silver Veil," she muttered.
Eren tensed. "Syra?"
"Or worse."
They pressed forward with caution, but the smoke drew nearer, and by dusk they were met.
She came alone hood down, face bare this time. Syra. Her leather armor had been dusted white by travel, but she moved like someone who hadn't slept, and didn't need to.
She stopped twenty paces from Eren, her gaze locking on Akreth.
"You did it," she said.
He nodded.
"The sword accepted your name?"
He nodded again.
She studied him, arms crossed. "And did you?"
Eren met her eyes. "Yes."
Syra sighed. Not in defeat. In recognition.
"Then they'll come faster now. The ones who waited for the bearer to find himself. The Circle. The Reclaimers. The Covenant. They'll want you as symbol or weapon."
Elira stepped forward. "Then they'll find a man, not a blade."
Syra smirked faintly. "Let's hope that's enough."
Then she turned to Eren, more solemn now.
"There's a city to the north. Serethal. It fell during the first war, but its bones still breathe. Beneath its ruins lies the Gate of Sundered Flame."
Eren tilted his head. "Another Threshold?"
"Worse," she said. "It's a place where reality first broke."
Elira's face paled. "The Source Rift…"
Syra nodded. "You'll be drawn to it, whether you like it or not. The moment you named yourself, the flame knew where to lead you next."
She turned to go.
Eren called out, "Will you follow me?"
Syra paused, then looked back over her shoulder.
"I already am."
Then she vanished into the mists.
Eren turned to Elira.
"Serethal?"
She nodded grimly. "That city's been dead for centuries. But if the Rift still breathes beneath it, and you're the bearer…"
He shouldered the blade.
"Then I'll meet it head-on."
Akreth pulsed once.
And the wind changed again.