The cathedral of thorns groaned as the two Valens stood facing each other—one grown, scarred, sword in hand. The other, a child of stillness and flame, bearing no malice… only memory.
Dhera circled the edge of the thornlit chamber cautiously. Lyra stayed back near Orven, who had collapsed to his knees, his lips moving in silent incantations as he attempted to parse the glyphs spiraling across the roots.
"This is a binding rite," he whispered hoarsely. "But reversed. Instead of anchoring a soul to a flame, it's trying to anchor the flame to a soul."
"And if it fails?" Lyra asked.
"It consumes both."
The Unburned Name stepped forward. Despite his youth, each step echoed like steel across stone. The thornmark embedded in his chest pulsed in sync with the glyphs on Valen's back.
"You carry what was stolen," the child said. "Not a gift, not an inheritance. A theft, sealed by blood and silence."
"I never claimed to deserve it," Valen replied.
"Then you are the first in many ages to speak honestly to me."
The Unburned Name lifted his hand, and a wheel of fire ignited above his palm—a burning sigil inscribed with thousands of names, each flickering for a heartbeat before vanishing.
"These are those who burned before you."
"And these… are those who burned for you."
The sigil shattered.
The flames spiraled down toward Valen's chest, threading like molten vines through the glyphs of the Crimson Mark.
Pain exploded in him—not of flesh, but of soul.
He dropped to one knee.
Visions stabbed into his mind:
A field of gallows, each flame atop a stake.
A girl with silver hair, laughing as the world burned behind her.
A tower collapsing into the sea, its library screaming.
A hand reaching for him from beneath the earth, bound in thorns.
Valen's hand clenched the earth.
He screamed.
Lyra stepped forward instinctively, but Dhera held her back.
"No. He has to endure this alone."
"But he's not—"
"He is. This is his fire. We can't carry it."
The Unburned Name crouched beside Valen.
"You are a fragment of what was denied. The Mark remembers even when you do not. Your body burns because your name still resists."
Valen raised his head, teeth clenched.
"Then help me remember."
The child leaned forward.
"I am not here to help you."
"I am here to judge you."
A throne of ash erupted behind them, and the cathedral began to wither. The glyph-lanterns burst, their light bleeding into smoke. The very roots beneath their feet turned black and cracked.
Orven cried out, "The seal's breaking! If he fails, the flame will spread uncontrollably!"
Lyra swore. "Then we end it now."
She rushed forward.
Only to be stopped mid-stride as the thorns closed around her, forming a cage.
"Let him finish!" Dhera yelled.
Inside the circle, Valen rose again.
His hands trembled.
But his eyes burned with clarity.
"I was Aren Kael once," he whispered. "A nameless officer in a forgotten world. I died without honor. I lived without pride. But I chose to rise."
The flame behind him surged.
The Unburned Name tilted his head.
"And now?"
Valen looked him in the eye.
"Now I choose to remember everything. Even if it breaks me."
The child's mask cracked.
A smile.
Then he lunged—not with fists, but as light, a spiral of fire and name-glyphs that slammed into Valen's chest.
The chamber shook.
The vines screamed.
Outside, the Bell of Thorns toll again—not in mourning, but as declaration.
GONNNNNGG.
Valen stood alone.
In a space of nothing.
A formless void filled only with the sound of breath and flame.
A figure stepped from the dark—a man who looked like him, but taller. Older. Dressed in a cloak of broken badges.
"I carried your guilt."
Another followed—a woman with black gloves and tear-stained eyes.
"I bore your sorrow."
A third, a boy with a crown of smoke.
"I lit your fire."
They stepped forward and placed hands on Valen's shoulders.
Together, they spoke:
"You are not worthy of the Crimson Mark."
"But you are the only one left who will not waste it."
The flames engulfed him.
And Valen screamed—
Not in pain.
In acceptance.
When the fire died, Valen stood at the center of the throne room.
Alone.
But the child was gone.
In his place, the thorn-throne had grown anew, now empty.
At his back, the Crimson Mark pulsed with new light—stable, for the first time.
Lyra broke through the cage. "Valen!"
He turned to her.
Eyes no longer just red—but threaded with gold.
"I'm still me."
Dhera knelt, exhausted. "You stabilized the mark."
Orven whispered reverently, "He inherited it."
Valen shook his head.
"No. I earned it."
Thales, the Thorn Warden, stepped from the staircase.
He knelt.
"The Bell has tolled. The Name has burned. The true bearer walks."
Valen sheathed Sorrowfang.
"We move now."
Lyra looked at him, startled. "Move where?"
Valen turned toward the stairwell.
"The bell may have tolled for me. But I heard another in the distance."
Dhera rose shakily. "Another what?"
Valen's voice was low.
"Another name trying to escape its fire."