The darkness parted before Aran's flame as if afraid. With each strike of his blade, shadows shrieked and recoiled. Vaerin fought beside him, a blur of violet fire and steel, but it was Aran the curse hungered for. It sensed the oath he carried—the vow of love that defied death.
The halls of Vareth were labyrinthine, lined with broken mirrors that reflected not their bodies, but their regrets. Aran ignored them, pushing forward, heart locked onto a pull deeper than magic. Elira was here. He could feel her soul calling through the thorns.
At the heart of the ruins lay a chamber of twisted roots and black crystal. Elira hung suspended within, her body encased in a cocoon of living shadow. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, and yet Aran could see the gentle rise and fall of her breath. She lived—but barely.
"The Curse feeds on hope," Vaerin warned. "It will offer you what you want most... to break you."
Aran approached slowly. The shadows writhed, then parted—welcoming him. In their midst, Elira opened her eyes.
"Aran," she breathed.
It was her. Her voice. Her soul.
He reached for her—and the chamber shifted.
Suddenly, he stood in a field of golden fire. Elira was there, smiling, unmarred, reaching for his hand. A life of peace unfolded before him—love, family, freedom. No war. No pain.
But something was wrong.
She didn't wear the Oathbrand.
Aran's eyes narrowed. He stepped back. The illusion fractured.
"My Elira would never forget the promise," he growled.
The dream shattered. Screams erupted as the curse recoiled in fury. The cocoon split, shadows screaming as light poured from Aran's chest. The Oathbrand blazed, and the fire of his love scorched the chamber.
With a cry of anguish and devotion, Aran plunged his sword into the root-heart of the curse.
There was silence.
Then—
A gasp. Elira fell into his arms, real, alive.
"You kept it," she whispered. "The promise."
Aran held her tightly, eyes burning. "Always."