The war of dreams had ended, but the land still smoldered.

The shrine valley was no longer quiet. Ash drifted like snow, and flowers grew where torches had fallen. When I stepped outside at dawn, the soil itself breathed beneath my feet warm, alive, pulsing with leftover power.

Everywhere, the earth remembered flame.

But something else stirred in the ashes.

At first, I thought they were embers, tiny flickers of gold scattered across the valley. Then one of them moved. It blinked. It ...