In the northern lands of Myrenhold, beyond Elyndor's border, news traveled swiftly.
The return of the Flamebearer had not gone unnoticed.
The Black Paladins—remnants of the old order sworn to kill Zion—gathered in secret.
"If the boy lives, the prophecy reignites," said their captain, draped in armor scorched black. "We end him before the flames consume the world again."
At the same time, far across the sea, a dying empress whispered Raen's name in her sleep—unaware of why she remembered it, but certain he would one day bring ruin or salvation.
Back in Elyndor, Raen finally confronted Queen Arellia.
"You've known all along," he said, voice steady. "You knew who I was."
The queen didn't deny it.
She only said, "I raised you not to control you—but to see if the fire could be contained."
Raen's fists trembled. "And if it can't?"
She turned away. "Then I pray the world is ready."