Morning came slowly to Aranthur. Mist curled through the fields like breath. The river ran silent, its surface smooth as a sheet of glass. Thiya walked along its edge, her scarf damp from the dew. Every step carried the faint rhythm of fear and purpose intertwined.
She hadn't told anyone she was leaving. How could she? No one would understand. The people of Aranthur believed in things they could touch—the harvest, the monsoon, the temple bell. They did not believe that rivers whispered or that flames remembered.
But she had seen it. She had heard the voice. And now it called her east.
The pendant pulsed gently against her skin, a heartbeat that didn't belong to her. Whenever she hesitated, its warmth nudged her onward.
By midday, the forest began to thicken. The air grew heavy with the scent of moss and rain-soaked bark. Light filtered through tall canopies in golden shafts, and insects hummed like tiny prayers.
Thiya paused to drink from a stream, the water cool and sweet. When she looked down, she thought she saw movement beneath the surface—flashes of light twisting like fish made of fire. But when she blinked, they were gone.
She rose and continued on, following the river's bend.
The path narrowed until she came upon stone steps, half-buried under vines. Each one was carved with ancient patterns she didn't recognize—curves and lines that seemed to shimmer faintly when touched by sunlight.
At the top of the steps stood the ruins of a small temple.
The roof had collapsed, and roots had split the walls apart, yet something sacred lingered in the air. A faint hum, deep and patient, vibrated beneath her feet.
She stepped inside.
The interior was dark but not cold. The walls were carved with murals depicting a woman of light surrounded by four radiant orbs. Time had worn away her face, but Thiya felt she knew it. The goddess of flame—the one who had divided herself before the world forgot.
At the far end, half-buried under rubble, stood an altar. Upon it, a bowl of blackened stone filled with ash.
Thiya approached slowly, her pendant glowing brighter with each step.
A soft sound—like breath drawn after a long sleep—rose from the ash. The glow from her pendant spilled over the bowl, and for a moment, the ash stirred. Tiny sparks bloomed, weak but alive.
Thiya gasped. "You're still here," she whispered.
She reached out. The air above the bowl shimmered. Warmth kissed her fingertips, then a voice filled the space—not loud, but so ancient it made her bones ache.
"Child of the southern flame… you have come."
Thiya staggered back. The voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"The tide that slept too long. The first to remember."
The air around her thickened. Water began to drip from the ceiling even though the rain had stopped outside. The ash in the bowl turned liquid, swirling into a small whirlpool that glowed from within.
"The tide dreams of its sisters," the voice murmured. "But the shadow has learned our names."
"The shadow?"
"It feeds on forgetting. It follows the light that dares to wake. You must run before it finds you."
The walls trembled. A low hum built in the air, growing sharper, darker.
From the far corner of the ruined temple, something began to move.
The shadows along the wall thickened, pooling like ink. They twisted together, rising into a form—tall, shapeless, its eyes hollow and bright as dying stars.
Thiya's pendant blazed. The warmth spread through her chest, but fear rooted her where she stood.
The shadow's voice was a hiss of sand and wind.
"You should not have remembered."
It surged toward her.
Thiya lifted her hand instinctively, the pendant burning so hot she cried out. A burst of light exploded from her palm, scattering across the temple like sunlight through water.
The shadow shrieked, its form unraveling into black smoke. The light pressed it back, but not enough. It reformed, slower now, circling her.
"You cannot hide forever, flame-bearer."
Her legs trembled. "I'm not trying to hide," she whispered, surprising even herself. "I'm trying to wake."
The pendant flared again, brighter, whiter. The bowl of liquid ash answered, its glow rising into a spinning column of silver light.
"Then let the tide guide you," the ancient voice said. "Remember its rhythm."
Water burst from the cracks in the floor, sweeping through the temple like a living river. It wrapped around Thiya, warm and alive, then surged outward, crashing into the shadow with a roar.
When the light faded, the shadow was gone. Only the sound of rushing water remained, echoing like a song.
Thiya fell to her knees, gasping. The pendant's glow dimmed to a soft gold. Around her, the temple's carvings shone faintly, restored for a single heartbeat before fading again into ruin.
"You have touched the tide," the voice whispered one last time. "Seek the mirror before the dark learns your face."
The river's sound receded, leaving only silence.
Thiya pressed her palm to the ground, still warm from the power that had passed through it. She didn't understand what had just happened—only that the shadow was real, and that she was no longer powerless.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the puddle beside her. For a moment, she saw not herself, but the same woman from the temple murals—eyes of fire, hair flowing like smoke.
Then the vision faded.
Thiya rose slowly, her body trembling, her heart fierce. Outside, the sky had turned pale and strange, the color of embers waiting to be stoked.
She took one last look at the ruined altar. The bowl of ash was still. But deep inside it, beneath the soot and stone, something faintly glowed—like a heartbeat refusing to die.
The wind shifted.
The pendant pulsed once… and the river outside whispered her name.