The Vale of Shattered Glass stretched before them, a haunting landscape of fractured crystal trees and jagged silver sands. Each step Kael took crunched against splinters that glittered like stars beneath their boots. The sun was dim here, filtered through a sky veiled in strange mist. Magic pulsed in the air—old and untamed.
"Why is it called the Vale of Shattered Glass again?" Elara muttered, scanning the horizon.
"Because nothing here ever heals," Lysaria replied softly. "Wounds made in the Vale linger. Scars remain, even after centuries. It's a land where time and magic broke apart."
Kael felt the truth of her words. The flame inside him reacted—sluggish, uncertain, almost afraid. This place was ancient, older than the Sovereign's reign, older even than the Flameborn legacies.
They descended into the vale slowly, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of glass and wind. Whispers floated through the breeze, not in words, but memories—snippets of laughter, battle cries, and weeping. Kael gritted his teeth.
"It's like the land remembers," he said.
"It does," Lysaria answered. "This was once a city—Aeltherra. The Flame of Memory burned here before it was shattered by the first Shadow King."
Kael stopped, frowning. "There were kings before the Sovereign?"
She nodded. "He wasn't the first to seek dominion over the flame. Just the most ruthless."
They reached the ruins of a massive amphitheater, half-buried in the glass. Pillars stood cracked and leaning, and in the center sat an obsidian basin. It pulsed faintly, as if it were a beating heart buried in stone.
"That's it," Lysaria whispered, breath catching. "The Flame of Memory."
Kael stepped closer. The basin called to him—no heat, only presence. He touched the edge, and the world around them shimmered. The air cracked like lightning, and suddenly they stood in the same amphitheater—whole and alive, as it had been centuries ago.
Thousands filled the seats. Warriors with fire-forged armor. Mages with hair like living embers. In the center, a woman stood holding a flame in her bare hand. Her eyes were golden and calm.
"Who is she?" Elara asked.
"Aelthira," Lysaria breathed. "The last Flamekeeper of Memory. We're seeing a vision… a memory."
The woman's voice echoed without sound: Flame is not just destruction. It is remembrance. It is truth. When the world forgets itself, the fire will remember.
Suddenly, the vision fractured. The glass beneath their feet cracked violently.
A screech tore through the air. The flame flared, and something stirred behind the basin.
A creature emerged.
It was ten feet tall, made of charred bone and living crystal. Wings of fractured obsidian rose behind it like jagged fans. Eyes burned with spectral fire.
"The Sentinel," Lysaria said, voice trembling. "It protects the Flame of Memory from all who seek it."
Kael stepped forward, his sword igniting. "We're not here to steal it. We're here to remember. To fight for what was lost."
The Sentinel didn't speak, but Kael felt its judgment. It raised a glass-bladed weapon and charged.
Kael blocked the blow just in time, fire meeting crystal in a clash of sound and light. Elara flanked right, hurling a flashbolt that exploded against the creature's back. It barely staggered.
Lysaria dropped to one knee, chanting. Magic flared from her hands in a circle of light, wrapping around the basin. "I'm unlocking the memory flame! Buy me time!"
Kael fought with everything he had. The creature's strikes were relentless, each one aiming to shatter, to erase.
But Kael was not just flame now—he was will.
With a final cry, Lysaria's magic burst outward. The basin blazed to life, golden and radiant.
The Sentinel froze. Then bowed its head—and vanished.
The flame hovered, then flowed into Kael's chest.
And with it came the memories of a thousand warriors… and a power lost to time.