The rain had stopped, but the world had not yet remembered sunlight.
Mist clung to the trees, and the air shimmered with the aftertaste of magic. Thiya walked slowly along the path beside the river, her sandals soaked, her heart still echoing with what she had seen in the temple.
The pendant around her neck felt heavier than before. When she lifted it, its faint golden light pulsed once—steady, alive, almost human.
She couldn't forget the voice that had spoken through the tide.
"You have touched the tide. Seek the mirror before the dark learns your face."
The words lingered like embers in her mind, glowing each time the silence grew too deep.
She tried to imagine what the "mirror" could be.
Another temple? Another memory? Or something buried within herself?
Every question only led to another.
Still, she kept walking. The river guided her now, curling east through thick forest, its waters reflecting fractured bits of sky. Sometimes it sang softly, like a lullaby too old for words.
Thiya had learned one truth since leaving Aranthur: the world felt alive in ways she had never noticed before. The trees leaned closer when she passed. The wind carried whispers she almost understood. Even the earth beneath her feet seemed to hum.
And when she was quiet enough, she could feel it—
the rhythm beneath everything.
A slow, eternal heartbeat.
By dusk, she found herself at a clearing. The river widened there, its surface perfectly still. In the center stood a small island of stone, barely large enough for one person.
Curiosity pulled her forward. She removed her sandals, waded through the shallows, and climbed onto the island. The water was warm—too warm for twilight—and glowed faintly where it touched her skin.
She sat, wrapping her arms around her knees. The pendant's light shimmered softly on the water's surface. For the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe.
"Am I really the flame?" she whispered to the river. "Or just someone lost in a story she doesn't understand?"
The water didn't answer. It only rippled gently, carrying moonlight like liquid silver.
But when she closed her eyes, she felt something shift.
A pulse—not from the pendant this time, but from the river itself.
Slow. Deep. Ancient.
Then the world around her dissolved.
She was no longer on the island. She stood within a vast expanse of water, endless in every direction. The sky above was a ceiling of lightless glass, and beneath her feet was a surface both liquid and solid, holding her weight like memory.
The river had become a dream.
Voices whispered through the air—not one, but many, layered atop each other. Some spoke in words she knew, others in tones that felt older than language.
"Flame of the South."
"The tide knows you."
"Do you remember us?"
Thiya turned in a slow circle. The voices grew louder, overlapping, echoing from unseen places. The pendant glowed fiercely, casting light across the water.
Shapes began to appear in the distance—figures formed from mist and reflection. Some tall, some small, all flickering like candlelight. They gathered in a circle around her.
Their faces shifted constantly—old and young, sorrowful and kind, human and divine.
"We are what remains of the dream," one of them said. "We watched you fall asleep, and now we watch you wake."
Thiya's voice trembled. "Where am I?"
"Between memory and forgetting."
"The place where the river carries what the world no longer sees."
She felt her heartbeat quicken. "And who are you?"
"The echoes of the goddess. The tide's memory. We guard what she left behind."
The circle of figures rippled like water, their light fading in and out.
"You carry her warmth. But warmth alone cannot stop the dark."
The air thickened. The water beneath her feet began to tremble. A chill crept through the dream.
"The shadow stirs again," another voice whispered. "It hunts the fragments. It feeds on the hollow places in human hearts."
Thiya clutched her pendant. "How do I stop it?"
"You must find the mirror."
"Only truth can burn what feeds on lies."
The water shuddered harder. Cracks of darkness spread across its surface like ink in clear water.
The figures stepped back, their forms breaking apart.
"Wake, flame-bearer," they cried. "Wake before it finds you."
A roar split the silence. From the darkness beneath the water rose a vast shape—a serpentine form of shadow and ash, its body endless, its eyes like dying suns.
It lunged toward her.
Thiya raised her hands instinctively. The pendant blazed, its light tearing through the dream like fire through fog.
The creature shrieked, its scream shaking the world. The sound fractured the sky, and everything shattered—water, light, sound, air.
Then silence.
Thiya gasped and opened her eyes. She was back on the small island, the river around her calm once more. Sweat clung to her skin; her heart raced.
Above her, the sky had turned indigo, the first stars blinking awake.
The pendant still glowed, faint but steady. The same warmth filled her chest, but this time it carried sorrow—a deep ache she couldn't name.
She looked into the water. Her reflection trembled.
For a moment, she saw them again—the faces from the dream, fading like mist. And behind them, the shadow's golden eyes watching from beneath the surface.
Her throat tightened. "You're still here," she whispered.
The river rippled once, almost like a nod.
Thiya stepped into the shallows, the water glowing faintly around her feet. The current tugged gently eastward, urging her forward.
She took a deep breath. "Then I'll find the mirror. I'll remember for all of us."
The pendant pulsed once, brighter than before.
As she turned to leave, she felt it—a faint hum, like music hidden beneath the wind. The same melody she'd heard in the dream.
It followed her as she walked along the riverbank, soft and persistent.
By the time she reached the edge of the forest, the stars had gathered fully overhead. Fireflies hovered like tiny sparks of memory. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang—a low, mournful sound carried by the night breeze.
Thiya stopped. Something about the sound felt wrong. The tone wavered, cracked, then broke into silence.
The air grew cold.
She turned. The river behind her glowed faintly, but the forest beyond had gone completely still. No crickets, no wind, no sound.
Then she saw it—at the edge of the trees, a figure standing in shadow.
It wasn't Kairen.
It wasn't human.
It watched her silently, its shape shifting at the edges, like smoke refusing to settle. Its eyes glowed gold—familiar, haunting, endless.
Thiya's breath caught. The same eyes she'd seen beneath the river. The same presence from her dream.
The pendant's light flared, sharp and bright.
The figure didn't move. But its voice—cold and beautiful—slid through the silence like a blade.
"Dreams belong to those who sleep, little flame."
"You are awake. You do not belong."
Thiya stumbled back, her pulse pounding.
The shadow took one step forward.
"And when you forget your light, I will remember you."
Then it vanished, melting into the dark as though it had never been there.
Thiya stood alone, trembling, her pendant burning hot against her skin.
Above her, the stars seemed to flicker nervously, as if even they feared what walked beneath them.
The river beside her whispered once—soft, sad, and strange.
The ember pulsed once…
as if it had just learned her name.