It was revealed.
Every hundred years, beneath the silver eclipse, the Oracle Flame chose its guardian.
The ritual was ancient and unchangeable — whoever stepped forward must surrender something they cherished most.
Aarya stood before the temple gates, her long hair braided with jasmine and gold thread, a symbol of beauty and status in her land.
For years she had trained in silence, studying forgotten runes and learning the language of wind and flame.
But she had never imagined the Flame would call her.
The crowd gathered in hushed awe as she entered the circular chamber.
At its center burned the Oracle Flame — not red, not gold, but shimmering blue-white like captured starlight.
The High Priestess spoke softly.
“To carry the fire, you must let go of the mirror.”
Aarya understood.
In Vaeloria, warriors shed armor. Mages shed fear. But guardians of the Flame shed vanity.
She knelt.
The ceremonial blade was not sharp with steel, but with magic. As it passed over her head, her hair dissolved into glowing strands of light, rising like fireflies before vanishing into the Flame itself.
There was no sorrow in her heart.
With each passing stroke, she felt lighter — as if illusions were being lifted. When the final strand disappeared, the chamber grew silent.
Then the Flame answered.
A pulse of radiant energy surged outward, not burning, but awakening. Sigils of ancient power traced across her bare scalp like faint constellations before settling beneath her skin.
She rose slowly.
Without her hair, her presence seemed fiercer, clearer — like a blade forged and polished. Her eyes reflected the Oracle Flame itself.
The High Priestess bowed.
“The Guardian stands before us.”
Outside, the eclipse completed its circle. The sky brightened.
And Aarya, newly shorn and newly powerful, stepped into the world not diminished — but transformed.