The chapel cracked open like a wound.
From beneath the dais, the figure emerged—half spirit, half knight. Its form flickered with dying fire, armor layered in spectral ash, and its helm wreathed in embers that hissed with every breath.
Elion.
Or what remained of him.
"I sealed myself into this trial," the knight-spirit said, voice echoing with two tones—one human, one hollow. "So only you could end it. If you were worthy. If you remembered."
Arjuna held Elion's blade in both hands. His own sword was sheathed on his back, forgotten for now. This was his brother's trial. His burden.
"I don't remember everything," Arjuna said. "But I remember the promise."
The ghost's head tilted. "Then fight me. Not to win. But to know."
The floor cracked further—revealing not stone, but burning coals beneath their feet. Candles went out one by one. Shadows pulled tight against the walls. The reliquary had become an arena.
Tellen stood at the chapel's threshold, unable to cross. "He has to do it alone," he whispered.
The duel began.
Elion's strikes were precise, filled with anguish. They carried no anger—only the weight of remembrance. Each blow rang with memory, every parry a denial of the past.
Arjuna met them, not with perfection, but with purpose.
He was slower now. His shoulder still ached from Ser Thorne's wound. But the Flame's Hand sword moved as if it remembered the man who once held it.
Flash.
Strike.
Clash.
"You buried me in ash," Elion said between blows. "And then forgot I existed."
"I didn't choose to forget," Arjuna growled, sparks flying between their blades. "Something took it from me."
"And you let it."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Arjuna faltered.
Elion drove him back—until his heel struck the chapel's edge.
The drop below was dark. Bottomless.
One more blow would end it.
"You were my brother," Elion said, raising his burning blade. "And I died for your vow. If you forget it again—then let it kill you now."
Arjuna lowered his sword.
Let the point touch the stone.
"I won't raise my hand against you, Elion."
Flames surged along Elion's armor.
"Then you've already failed."
"No," Arjuna said. "I remember now. Not with my mind. With my soul."
He stepped forward—into the blade.
It sliced across his chest. Blood spilled.
But he didn't stop.
Arjuna dropped to one knee before the spirit and placed Elion's sword at its feet.
"I remember your voice in the rain. Your laugh when we failed to summon fire the first time. I remember the girl you loved, even if I can't name her. I remember you."
Elion's blade fell from his hands.
He staggered back.
The fire around him dimmed—then shimmered.
And the ghost knelt.
"You passed," Elion said, voice soft now. "You passed, brother. And for the first time in a thousand years… so did I."
The spirit faded.
Only the sword remained.
It pulsed once.
Then fell silent.
Arjuna stood, bloody but alive. The wound across his chest already beginning to close—slowly, painfully. Not with magic. With memory.
Tellen helped him down the stairs.
"So?" the historian asked.
"I remember his name," Arjuna said. "And that's enough."
"What now?"
Arjuna looked back at the chapel.
The statue outside had changed.
The knight's hands no longer cupped the air.
They held a flame.
That night, they left Ashwood.
Beneath them, the ruins settled into sleep again.
But deep within the chapel, the reliquary's walls shifted.
New names burned into being.
THORNEELIONARJUNA
The last one pulsed once.
Then faded.
And above, unseen in the black sky, the first star of the Black Vow began to stir.