The rain came at dawn, soft and silver. It slipped down the tiled roofs of Aranthur, soaked the red earth, and turned the air sweet with the smell of wet soil and mango leaves.
Thiya sat by her window, chin resting on her knees, watching the mist drift through the fields. The pendant around her neck had cooled since the day before, but every now and then it flickered—like a breath trapped inside metal.
Sleep had eluded her. Each time she closed her eyes, the river's voice called again: "The flame remembers."
The words echoed in rhythm with the rain.
She didn't tell anyone what she'd seen—not her aunt who sold garlands at the temple, nor the boys who teased her for daydreaming. Who would believe that a whisper could rise from water?
Still, part of her longed to return to the river, to ask what it wanted. The flame within her pendant was quiet now, but its silence felt expectant—like a lung just before the next breath.
When the rain softened to a drizzle, Thiya tied her hair, wrapped her mother's scarf around her shoulders, and stepped outside.
The world felt washed and new. Mud clung to her sandals, and droplets clung to the banyan's roots as she passed. Every leaf shimmered, trembling with tiny worlds of light.
The river waited where it always did—beyond the fields, past the stone steps carved into the earth. It was wider than usual, its surface rippling like silk in the wind.
Thiya hesitated at the edge. The pendant was warm again.
She knelt, palms brushing the cool water. "I came back," she whispered.
The water rippled, as if in answer.
Then the voice came—not from above or below, but from within the current.
"You heard."
The sound was softer now, intimate. The surface of the river shimmered, and a faint light gathered above it, forming the outline of a man.
Thiya's breath caught. It was him again—the figure from the day before. His form was clearer now, his features almost human. His hair fell like smoke across his shoulders, and his eyes glowed amber, steady and knowing.
The air around him hummed with quiet power.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling.
"One who remembers what the world forgot."
The words vibrated through her bones.
"You said the flame remembers," Thiya whispered. "What does it remember?"
"What it once was," he replied. "And what it lost."
He stepped closer. The river didn't move under his feet. Instead, the water glowed faintly where he stood.
"That flame you wear was once part of something vast. When it dimmed, the world began to fade with it. The goddess of fire—your goddess—fell into silence. Her warmth scattered across the land, hidden in the hearts of four fragments: the flame, the tide, the mirror, and the song."
The pendant flared softly, the light pulsing in rhythm with his words.
"And you," he said, "carry the first."
Thiya shook her head. "You're wrong. I'm no goddess. I can't even speak to people without stammering."
He smiled, the expression both sad and kind. "Neither could she, at first."
His gaze lingered on her, and she felt exposed—like he could see every fear she'd ever hidden.
"Why me?" she asked again. "Why not someone stronger?"
"Because the world chose quiet," he said simply. "The loud forgot how to listen."
Thiya looked down at her reflection. The light from her pendant danced across the water's surface, turning her eyes gold for a moment. "And you? Why are you here?"
He hesitated. When he finally spoke, his voice softened. "Because I made a promise."
"To the goddess?"
"To her flame."
The rain had stopped. Mist rose from the ground, curling around them. His form flickered, the light within him dimming like a lantern running out of oil.
"You shouldn't be here," he said suddenly. "The shadow stirs when the flame wakes."
A chill crawled up her spine. "What shadow?"
"The one born from forgetting. The silence that devours light."
His figure began to waver. The water beneath his feet trembled.
"Listen, Thiya," he said quickly. "Follow where the river bends east. The tide still sleeps, but it will know you. Wake it before the shadow finds it."
Before she could ask more, the wind surged, scattering the mist. The river exploded with ripples, and the light that shaped him shattered into a thousand fragments that faded with the current.
He was gone.
Thiya sank to her knees, the cold water soaking her hem. The world felt too still again. Her hands trembled as she clutched the pendant. It pulsed once, faint and weak.
"Wake it," she murmured. "The tide…"
She stared downstream, where the river curved east. The hills beyond were veiled in fog.
Something stirred beneath the water's surface—a soft glow, almost invisible. It swirled like an ember trying to remember fire.
The pendant answered with warmth.
Thiya took a deep breath and rose to her feet. "Then that's where I'll go."
Her reflection wavered. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a shadow standing behind her in the water—tall, shapeless, watching.
When she turned, there was nothing but the banyan in the distance, its branches swaying against the gray sky.
That night, Thiya dreamed of the river again.
But this time, it wasn't calm.
The water roared, endless and dark. Fire burned beneath its waves, and voices whispered her name from within the depths. She saw flashes—eyes like storms, hands reaching through the current, a temple broken in two.
And through it all, she heard Kairen's voice:
"The flame remembers."
She woke before dawn, sweat beading her forehead. The lamp beside her had gone out, but the pendant still glowed faintly, casting gold light across her palms.
Her heart pounded, not from fear, but from something new—something that felt dangerously close to hope.
She went to the door and looked out at the river valley. A faint mist clung to the earth, and in the east, the first light of day was climbing the hills.
The world was still sleeping.
But the flame was not.
It pulsed once… as if it had just taken its first breath.