The fortress was carved into the bones of a dead mountain, long abandoned by gods and men. No banners flew, no light pierced its halls—yet something stirred within, alive and watching.
In the heart of its throne chamber, the other Aran stood before a broken mirror.
He looked into it not for vanity, but for affirmation.
The reflection showed him his fire—not golden, like the Aran who bore the Promise, but blackened at the edges, flickering with shades of violet and deep crimson. A corrupted flame. Not lesser. Not false. Refined.
Behind him knelt a dozen acolytes, faces marked with burn-scars in intricate patterns. They did not speak unless spoken to. And when they did, it was only in absolutes.
"You are the one born of the storm and the fire," one intoned. "The heir of both halves."
The false Aran closed his eyes. "Not false. Not broken. Unshackled."
He had no need of memories, no desire for longing or sentiment. He did not ache. He acted.
From a side hall, a figure emerged—tall, armored, and missing half his face, replaced with a mask shaped like a scorched phoenix.
"The scouts return," the masked one said. "They found him. In Aethra."
"Of course they did." Shadow-Aran stepped down from the dais. "He's been chasing a truth he was never meant to understand."
The masked man hesitated. "Do we attack?"
"No," Aran replied. "We draw him out. Let him come to me."
He stepped toward the war map—one not made of ink and parchment, but living flame. Regions flickered and shifted as the fire bent to his will.
He touched a city—small, unarmed, near the Stormreach coast.
"This one."
"Why there?"
He smiled. "Because it matters nothing to the world. But it will matter everything to him."
The flame pulsed.
"Let him see what the Promise is worth when fire answers to no one."