The Hall of Embers slumbered beneath a vaulted sky of obsidian stone, its walls still carrying the warmth of a kingdom reborn. Outside, the wind carried the scent of soot and pine, but here—at the heart of the Flame—there was only silence and fire.
Po stood alone before the great altar, its flames swaying slowly, as if breathing.
His crown lay on the obsidian steps behind him, gleaming faintly in the firelight. It felt too heavy tonight, even when not resting on his brow.
He had spent the day hearing petitions, comforting grieving families, promising reconstruction. His words carried the weight of a king, but tonight... his soul still trembled like a boy lost in a storm.
The fire shifted.
Flickers of light danced unnaturally, swirling into forms that twisted like ghosts. Then, from the embers came a voice—cracked, molten, ancient.
"You wear the flame, but you are not yet the fire."
Po didn't flinch. He had heard the Flame speak before—in dreams, in moments of pain or revelation. But this time, it came unbidden. Present. Demanding.
"I've given everything," Po said softly. "My name. My past. My body. I carried the Emberheart. I killed Varik… and I saved him. What more must I give?"
"Your crown is not the cost. It is the burden."
The voice cracked like dry timber.
Another followed it—warmer, almost maternal. "And your burden is not yet complete, Echo Returned."
The flames brightened. In their core, Po saw them—faces. Echoes of lives he could not name but somehow knew: a fire-dancer on desert sands, a warrior with a flaming spear, a young monk lighting candles beneath a shattered moon. Each one burned with the same ember in their chest.
Himself. Again. And again.
He stepped back, heart pounding. The visions blurred, turning to ash.
"Why now?" he asked the fire, his voice rough.
And then came a voice so familiar it stopped his breath.
"Because the fire remembers. And it is time you remembered it too."
Varik.
But not broken, not filled with hatred—this was the Varik from his final moment. At peace. Honest. Human.
Po's jaw clenched. The ache in his chest deepened, where the Emberheart no longer glowed but pulsed like a buried star.
He turned toward the towering windows that looked over the Citadel. Beyond them, the people of the Flame slept. Their houses were new, their scars still fresh. Children huddled close to parents, warm for the first time in seasons.
And he was going to leave them.
"Will they hate me?" he whispered, unsure if he was asking the flame or himself.
The response came slow.
"Perhaps. But hatred fades. Ash becomes soil. And from soil, fire grows again."
Behind him, footsteps echoed against the stone.
He didn't turn. "She won't understand," he said quietly.
Kaelen came to his side. "Lucy has your heart. Even if she doesn't understand, she will feel it."
Po closed his eyes. "I'm their king, Kaelen. They need me."
"And they'll still have you," Kaelen replied. "But not here. Not as a symbol they cling to. As the fire that lights the path."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Po turned back to the altar. He reached for the crown, let his fingers touch the cool metal.
Then he set it gently down, and walked away.
The sun had not yet risen. A pale glow hung low in the eastern sky, casting the Citadel in hues of dying embers. Atop the outer steps where the Flame Gates stood open, Po waited—cloaked in a long mantle of crimson and gold, his eyes distant as ash drifted on the wind.
Behind him, footsteps.
He didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"You weren't going to say goodbye?" Lucy's voice broke the silence. Tired. Wounded.
Po turned. She stood with her arms crossed, her braid loose over one shoulder, eyes glistening.
"I couldn't wake you," he said. "You were finally sleeping."
Lucy stepped closer, her voice rising. "You're leaving. Not for a hunt or a council tour—leaving. How could you think I'd want to sleep through that?"
Po lowered his head. "I thought it would hurt less."
"For who?" she asked, voice breaking. "For you, or for me?"
He didn't answer right away. The wind tugged gently at his mantle. The Flame within the Citadel pulsed, as if aware.
"I don't want to go," he said finally. "But I have to."
"Because the voices told you?" she asked, bitterly. "Because fire and fate speak in riddles? What about the people? What about me?"
"I am the Flame, Lucy. But the flame is restless. It burns where it must, not where it's safe." He stepped forward. "They won't be alone. You won't be alone. Kaelen and Thorne—"
"I don't want Kaelen and Thorne," she snapped. "I want you."
He took her hands gently. "And I want to return. I will return. But not yet."
Her shoulders trembled. "Every time I start to believe in peace, something takes you away."
Po leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. "Then believe this: I carry you with me. Always. Even if I vanish in flame."
She held him tighter than she ever had before.
Then, quietly, she let go.
By sunrise, the Citadel stirred.
From balconies and windows, citizens gathered—silent, confused, reverent—as their king walked alone down the long stone road through the open Flame Gates.
Kaelen stood with Thorne at the gate, watching him go.
Thorne muttered, "He's still just a boy."
Kaelen shook his head. "He's something else now."
The people did not cry out, did not stop him. They watched, not as followers mourning a departure, but as believers witnessing a necessary path.
From atop the Citadel, Lucy stood in shadow, arms wrapped around herself, tears unfallen.
And far ahead, beyond the edge of the mountain pass, the land shimmered—heat mirages rising from the sand. The Searing Veil called.
Po walked forward, flames flickering faintly at his heels.
Not as a king.
But as the fire itself.