The flame did not consume. It folded into her palm like silk drenched in memory, each thread humming with a voice she'd forgotten was hers. Heat radiated through her body, not burning—but revealing. Every bone, every shadow, every ache that once whispered not enough was now lit by something ancient and patient. The Spiral did not roar. It breathed with her.
The crowned self vanished—not crumbled, not defeated—but joined, like two notes finally forming a chord. Elthara staggered back, her hand still glowing faintly, the echo of the touch imprinted deep in her skin. She had not lost anything. But she had changed. The weight in her chest was no longer pain—it was promise.
Around her, the Spiral quieted. The echoes—the versions of her past selves—did not retreat. They simply watched, unmoving, as if waiting for something else to rise. The Kairos-shaped memory remained, still outside the circle, unchanged. His eyes shimmered now with something unreadable—love or warning, or both. She step
