They came in the night.
Three figures, cloaked in shimmering gold, bearing blades carved from moonstone.
Valmira called them by name: The Daughters of the Broken Crown — remnants of the original Conclave, long thought dead. They had returned not to fight, but to test.
"You carry the Flame," one said. "Then prove it still burns for something more than vengeance."
Their challenge was simple: a spell duel without magic.
No fire. No ice. No lightning.
Just memory.
I stood in the circle. Lilith beside me. Valmira at my back.
And we spoke—not spells, but truths.
One by one, the daughters faded.
Not defeated.
Satisfied.
