Aerthalin bloomed.
From ash and agony, from broken cities and haunted forests, the world dared to rise again. And through it walked Elira—curse-bearer, storyteller, guardian of a legacy carved in sorrow and sealed in love.
The roads were different now.
Once scattered with ruin, now they pulsed with life. Villages pulsed with laughter. The scent of wildflowers threaded through air once thick with ash. Where Hollows once stalked, children played. Yet Elira felt the truth beneath the surface—not all wounds had healed.
The curse she'd inherited from Caelen—softer now, but still sharp in places—guided her steps. It whispered of cracks beneath beauty, of forgotten grief buried too shallow. And she followed it, not as a martyr, but as a keeper of light.
In a sun-warmed valley, she came upon a school—a modest structure of stone and wood, wrapped in ivy and hope. Above its door:
"The Ashbound Academy: In Memory of the One Who Felt Everything."
She stood frozen for a moment, heart clenching. Children's voices spilled from open windows—laughter, curiosity, learning. Inside, chalk scraped across slate, and stories of kindness were told as sacred truths.
A familiar voice called out. "Elira!"
Lira, from the garden, now a teacher, ran to embrace her. Time had deepened the grace in her face, but her spirit still bloomed wild and bright. "You came," she said, pulling back. "You've kept him alive."
Elira shook her head, smile bittersweet. "He did that himself. I only carry the echoes."
That afternoon, she stood before the students, the Weeping Blade strapped across her back—no longer a weapon, but a symbol. The children sat wide-eyed, sunlight haloing their eager faces.
"He was the heart of a dying age," Elira said softly, her voice ringing clear. "He bore more pain than anyone should. But still… he chose kindness. Even when it cost him everything."
She knelt, meeting a small boy's eyes. "And now, you are the heart of the new one. Be brave enough to feel. Be strong enough to care. That's the gift he left behind."
A girl raised her hand. "Did it hurt?"
Elira's smile trembled. "Yes. But it was worth it."
Their cheers were not loud, but they were fierce. In that moment, the curse in Elira's chest shimmered—not with sorrow, but with purpose. Hope wove itself through the threads of her soul.
Later, as twilight settled across the valley, Elira walked to a quiet hill and dug her hands into the earth. From her satchel, she drew a seedling—a gift from the monument grove, grown from memory and love. She planted it in silence, pressing her palm to the soil.
The roots took hold.
The world was not perfect.
It still ached.
It still faltered.
And in distant corners, darkness still stirred.
But it was alive.
And so long as it lived, Elira would walk its roads, a flicker of Caelen's light in every step.
Not to erase the pain—but to remind the world it mattered.
She rose, the wind at her back, the stars blinking to life above.
He had been the heart of the dying age.
And now, through her, through them…
His kindness would never die.