Night had never felt so alive.
The forest glowed faintly where the flames had passed, each ember clinging stubbornly to the air like memory refusing to fade. Mist hung between the trees, swirling through streaks of gold and smoke.
Thiya walked barefoot through the clearing where the shadow had vanished. The ground was warm beneath her feet, pulsing softly, as if the earth itself had learned her heartbeat. Every step released small sparks that drifted upward before winking out among the stars.
The pendant at her chest was quiet now—its light a calm, steady pulse. But whenever she closed her eyes, she could still hear the echo of the goddess's voice:
You cannot destroy shadow, only understand it.
Those words circled her thoughts like birds caught between wind and gravity. If the shadow truly was a reflection, what did that make her? Light and dark in the same breath? Or a wound that never healed?
She didn't know.
But she knew she could not stay here.
The air smelled of change. The river sang somewhere in the distance, its rhythm different now—stronger, faster. The tide she had awakened was moving. And with it, something else had begun to stir.
She followed the song until dawn. The forest opened into rolling hills wrapped in early light. Dew glimmered on every blade of grass. Somewhere ahead, smoke rose from a cluster of small houses. A village—one she didn't recognize.
Her stomach twisted. She hadn't eaten since the previous morning, and her limbs trembled from exhaustion. But the warmth that lived inside her refused to let her collapse.
As she descended toward the village, the pendant flared faintly, warning her of something unseen. The closer she came, the more she sensed it—an unease humming beneath the peaceful surface.
Children played in the distance, yet their laughter sounded hollow. The adults moved slowly, eyes dull, their gestures mechanical, as if they'd forgotten how to feel.
Thiya stopped near the first hut. The door was open, the air heavy with the scent of burned incense and damp grain. Inside, a woman sat motionless beside a cold hearth, staring at nothing.
"Are you all right?" Thiya asked softly.
The woman didn't blink.
Her voice came out like dust. "We dream, but we do not wake."
Thiya's chest tightened. She stepped closer, but the pendant grew hot, its light flickering between gold and blue. A warning.
Outside, the river that ran beside the village flowed too still, as if holding its breath.
Thiya left the hut and approached the water's edge. The reflection staring back at her was hazy, its eyes slightly delayed in motion. The surface rippled once—without wind.
And then she heard it: a whisper, soft and layered, thousands of voices folded into one.
"Remember us."
The sound rose from beneath the water, from beneath the earth, from within herself. The pendant answered with a trembling pulse.
"Remember us."
Faces began to form in the reflection—men, women, children—all with the same vacant eyes as the villagers. They moved like smoke trapped under glass.
Thiya knelt, reaching toward them. "Who are you?"
"Those who forgot too soon. Those who traded warmth for silence."
The voices rippled like wind through flame.
"The shadow fed, and we slept. You woke the flame; now wake us."
Her fingers brushed the water. Heat flashed through her body—images, feelings, fragments of lives she'd never lived. A farmer laughing in sunlight. A mother singing to her child. A temple dancer raising her hands to a sky of fire. Each memory flared, bright and brief, before dissolving into darkness.
Thiya gasped and fell back, clutching her chest. The pendant glowed so fiercely it hurt to look at it.
"I don't know how!" she cried.
The whisper came again, tender this time.
"Then listen. The ember knows."
The wind shifted. Ash from the burned clearing far behind her drifted across the hills, carried by a current she could not see. Each flake glowed faintly, gathering in the air above the river until they formed a slow-spinning spiral.
Within it, a figure appeared—not Kairen, not the shadow, but something between. Its form flickered between light and smoke, voice low and resonant.
"You've crossed the threshold."
Thiya's breath hitched. "Who are you now?"
"A messenger of what remains between flame and forgetting."
"What does that mean?"
"The embers remember the shape of fire, but not its name. You must give it one."
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"You will."
The figure lifted its hand. The ash around it burst into thousands of tiny lights, drifting down upon the village like fireflies. Wherever they landed—on rooftops, on still faces—the light seeped inward.
The villagers blinked. Slowly, life returned to their eyes. The woman in the hut gasped as if waking from a long dream.
Thiya stared in awe. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," the messenger said. "You did."
The pendant's light faded to a steady glow. The warmth it carried spread through her chest until she felt tears sting her eyes.
"Is this what the flame was meant for?"
"To remind. To remember. To love until it hurts."
The wind caught the figure's words and scattered them. Its outline flickered, thinning.
"The ember inside you is older than gods, but it still needs breath. Give it yours."
Then the messenger dissolved into sparks that rained into the river, joining the current. The water brightened for a heartbeat before returning to silver calm.
The villagers stirred, confused but alive. Children cried; parents embraced them. Someone lit a lamp, and its flame burned higher than it should have, dancing in patterns that mimicked the pendant's glow.
Thiya smiled faintly through her tears. For the first time, the light within her didn't feel like a burden. It felt shared.
But peace never lasted long around the flame.
The sky dimmed suddenly, though no clouds crossed the sun. The air thickened, pressing against her lungs. The river's surface went dark, mirroring not the sky but something beneath it—an endless depth that shimmered like oil.
The villagers froze, their newfound life flickering.
"It smells the light," someone whispered.
The shadow.
Thiya turned, scanning the horizon. The darkness gathered at the edges of the forest, rolling forward like fog. Within it, faint shapes writhed—faces, hands, remnants of those who had forgotten too completely to wake.
The pendant blazed, gold and blue intertwined. The flame inside her roared.
"Not again," she whispered.
She stepped forward, raising her hand. Fire leapt from her palm, not as destruction but as song. The flames curved through the air, weaving into symbols that glowed over the river—circles, spirals, words she didn't know yet somehow remembered.
The darkness hesitated.
The villagers began to hum, echoing the melody that rose from the river itself—the same song she had heard in her dream. The tide's rhythm. The world's heartbeat.
The shadow shivered, recoiling slightly, its edges unraveling.
Thiya poured everything she had into the song, her voice trembling but clear. The pendant burned white-hot. Light burst across the water, scattering into the air like countless fireflies.
The darkness screamed—a sound that wasn't sound at all—and pulled back toward the forest, retreating into itself.
When the last echo faded, the village stood bathed in golden light. The people fell to their knees, awed and silent. Thiya collapsed by the riverbank, the pendant dimming slowly until it was only warm again.
She looked up at the sky. It was clear, blue, and impossibly wide.
But even as relief washed through her, she felt it—a lingering thread of shadow twined within the light, faint but present. The flame had driven it back, not destroyed it.
And deep inside, beneath exhaustion and ache, she heard it: a whisper, almost kind.
"You burn beautifully."
Her breath caught. The voice wasn't outside her this time—it was within.
She touched her chest, feeling the steady beat beneath her palm. The ember inside answered, pulsing once.
She whispered back, barely audible. "Then watch me."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and smoke. The river shimmered gold one last time before settling into quiet.
Thiya closed her eyes, the world around her humming softly with life. For the first time, she didn't feel alone.
But far to the east, beyond the reach of the tide and flame, something ancient stirred in a mirror of obsidian water. Its surface rippled once, revealing not reflection but memory—hers.
The mirror had awakened.
And it was waiting.
The ember pulsed once…
as if answering a call it had known forever.