The sun rested heavy over Aranthur, spilling through the palm leaves like molten gold. Heat shimmered above the clay roofs, bending the world into waves. Beyond the village fields rose the old banyan—its roots thick as serpents, its branches whispering with a language only the wind remembered.
Thiya sat beneath its shade. The tree's cool breath wrapped around her while the air outside quivered with afternoon glare. She drew idle circles in the dust with a twig, tracing spirals the way her mother used to when she taught her prayers.
Her tunic, a dull brown that matched the soil, clung to her arms. Around her shoulders hung a pale-green scarf faded by sun and time. The pendant at her throat—a small golden flame—gleamed when the light slipped between the leaves.
Keep it close, Thiya, her mother's voice drifted through memory. It remembers what we forget.
That sentence had followed her for years, fluttering in and out of meaning. She was sixteen now and still had no idea what her mother had meant. But the pendant felt right against her skin, so she obeyed.
Below the hill, the village stirred. Goats bleated. The temple drum called the faithful. Women laughed at the well. Yet the banyan felt apart from all that life, as though it stood in another world entirely. Here, even the sound of the river came soft, like a heartbeat wrapped in cloth.
Thiya breathed deeply. For a while, she allowed the world to shrink to the patch of earth beneath her. The shade smelled of roots and earthworms. The breeze carried faint notes of turmeric and smoke from distant hearths.
Then the air changed.
A ripple moved through the branches, bending the light. The pendant against her skin warmed—not with the gentle comfort she knew, but with a pulse. Once. Twice. As though it were alive.
She held it up. The flame motif glowed faintly, casting small reflections in her eyes.
"Strange," she murmured.
A gust answered, sudden and cool. The leaves shivered; dust lifted from the ground and danced in thin spirals. Somewhere close, the river's song deepened, its rhythm quicker, urgent.
Her heart picked up the same beat.
The pendant pulsed again, brighter now, and she heard it—a voice, faint but clear, woven through the hiss of the wind.
"The flame remembers."
Thiya froze. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere at once. She looked around, half expecting a villager to step from the trees, laughing at a prank.
"The flame remembers."
It came again—deeper this time, close enough that her skin prickled.
She stumbled to her feet, clutching the pendant. "Who's there?"
Only silence. Then, from far below, the river shimmered, a strip of silver catching the sun. The light there flickered like fire reflected on water.
Drawn by something she didn't understand, Thiya followed.
The path wound steeply downward. Dry leaves cracked underfoot; the air grew cooler with every step. When she reached the riverbank, the world smelled of wet stone and flowers from the temple garlands that had drifted downstream.
The water was calm. Too calm. Even the insects seemed to have forgotten how to make noise.
She crouched and leaned forward. Her reflection rippled back at her—wide brown eyes, loose strands of dark hair, the pendant glowing faintly against her throat.
Then the reflection blinked before she did.
Thiya jerked back, heart hammering. The image in the water smiled—a slow, knowing smile that didn't belong to her.
"Stop," she whispered. Her voice sounded small. "Stop it."
The river answered with light.
A shimmer rose from the surface, forming into the shape of a man—transparent at first, then outlined in gold. Water dripped from the air as though he carried the river with him. His eyes glowed amber; his presence felt older than the hills themselves.
Thiya wanted to run, but her legs stayed rooted.
He spoke, his tone low and even, a current beneath words.
"You carry her warmth."
Thiya's mouth went dry. "Whose warmth?"
"The one who sang the first dawn. The flame that sleeps."
Her fingers closed around the pendant. "You mean this? It's just a charm."
"No charm lasts a thousand seasons."
He stepped closer; the river didn't stir under his feet. "When the goddess fell silent, her fire scattered. The world forgot, but the flame remembers. It found you."
Thiya shook her head. "You're wrong. I'm nobody."
"Every spark thinks it is ash," he said gently. "Until the wind touches it."
She couldn't look away from his eyes. They held both kindness and sorrow—the kind that comes from waiting too long.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"A promise."
The word carried weight, heavy as stone.
"My name is Kairen. I once guarded the goddess you echo now. Through her cycles I have watched the world burn, freeze, and burn again. Yet the flame never dies—it only hides."
The pendant flared in answer, its light spilling across the river. Thiya raised a hand to shield her eyes. "Why me?"
"Because you listen."
The light dimmed. The air filled with the scent of rain though the sky was clear.
"Soon," Kairen said, "you will hear her voice in dream and tide. Follow it."
The wind rose suddenly, scattering water into fine mist. When Thiya blinked, he was gone. Only the pendant glowed, faint but steady, like a small sun caught in gold.
She stood for a long time, the cool river lapping at her toes. The world seemed larger now, heavy with secrets she couldn't yet hold.
Her mother's voice echoed again, distant but clear.
Keep it close, Thiya. It remembers what we forget.
She looked at the horizon. The sky had deepened into orange; smoke from cooking fires drifted up in long ribbons. Somewhere behind her, the banyan whispered as the evening wind found its leaves.
Thiya turned toward home, every step echoing with a strange new rhythm. The pendant's pulse matched it—slow, certain, alive.
At the crest of the hill, she glanced back once. The river below caught the last of the sun. For an instant, it gleamed not silver but gold—an unbroken sheet of fire stretching toward the sea.
The flame within her stirred, answering the glow.
It pulsed once… as if it knew her name.