The world inside Arien's soul was not bound by time or shape.
Skies bled flame. Trees whispered names. Rivers flowed with memory instead of water. And at the heart of it all stood Ashir—tall, cloaked in moving shadow, with eyes like dying stars.
"You came willingly," he said, voice like rusted silk.
"I came to end you," Arien answered.
Kael and Joss stood at her sides, but even here… they felt distant. Dim.
Ashir lifted a hand, and mirrors rose around them—each showing a version of Arien:
A tyrant queen of ash.
A child burning villages in fear.
A hollow vessel, crowned by silence.
> "You are all of them," Ashir said. "Let me perfect you."
Arien stepped forward.
"No. I'm the girl who hid her flame. The warrior who stood for rebels. The daughter of fire. And the one who says no."
She raised her blade—but here, it sputtered.
Ashir laughed. "This is your soul, Arien. And you are already breaking."
Kael stepped forward, drawing his sword. "Then let me remind her who she is."
He charged Ashir—but the god caught the strike with a finger.
"You bleed loyalty. But that blade is forged from guilt."
He threw Kael into a wall of memories. Kael vanished in a scream.
"Kael!" Arien shouted, running toward the ripple—but the path closed behind her.
Joss grabbed her shoulder. "You don't have to win his way."
"Then how?"
He grinned. "You write your own truth."
Joss vanished too—pulled into a mirror showing a world where he betrayed them all.
Arien was alone.
But then—she closed her eyes.
She didn't fight. She listened.
To herself.
Not to fear.
Not to Ashir.
But to the girl who had once lit a candle in a dark cave… and promised she'd never be silent again.
And then—the soulfire lit.
A light born not of rage, but choice.
Arien opened her eyes.
Her blade reformed.
But not from silver.
From truth.
Ashir stepped back, startled.
"No. No, you were supposed to break—"
"I did," she sa
id. "And I chose what pieces to keep."
She struck.
And Ashir screamed.
Not in pain.
In fear.