The plains stretched endlessly before Thiya, a sea of golden grass whispering in the morning wind. The river curved like a silver thread beside her, its song faint but uneasy. Ever since the battle with the shadow, its melody had changed — softer, slower, as if afraid.
Thiya walked in silence, her pendant pulsing gently beneath her scarf. Gold and blue light blended with every beat, the flame and tide bound together. Still, a weight lingered in her heart — the mirror is watching.
When the wind shifted, she heard it — a melody faint as breath. Notes drifted between gusts of air, haunting yet beautiful. She followed the sound down into a valley where the earth dipped and the river pooled around a half-buried temple.
Vines covered its stone, and faded carvings lined its archway — fire, waves, and something new: flowing lines like strands of music.
Thiya stepped inside.
The air smelled of rain and memory. At the center lay a shallow pool, its surface rippling though no wind stirred. From it came the song — soft, sad, familiar.
She knelt beside it, the pendant's light spilling across the water.
"Child of flame and tide…"
The voice came not from above but within the pool. The ripples shimmered, forming faint shapes of light.
"You have woken half the world. Now, wake what still sleeps."
Thiya's breath caught. "Who are you?"
"The song the goddess left behind. The voice that shaped the first dawn. When she broke herself, I was silenced. Until you came."
Her pendant warmed. The water reflected not her face but another — the goddess, singing stars into being, her laughter echoing across eternity.
"You must sing again," the voice whispered. "Let the world remember her joy."
"I… don't know how."
"Every flame sings when it burns."
The water brightened, humming with light. Without thinking, Thiya parted her lips. A low hum rose — uncertain, trembling — but the pool answered, harmonizing in waves. The song wrapped around her, soft and radiant.
The temple walls glowed. Golden lines spread across the carvings, turning the stone into light.
And then, the song faltered.
A low, cold whisper rippled through the air.
"Even songs must end."
Thiya's heart froze. Darkness leaked from the edges of the room, swallowing the light. The water blackened.
The shadow rose again, taller now, sharper — no longer shapeless but eerily human.
"Did you think you could sing without silence hearing?" it hissed.
Thiya's voice trembled. "You can't stop me."
"I don't need to. Songs fade on their own."
The shadow reached toward her, and the pendant flared. Blue and gold burst together into silver-white. The water leapt upward, spinning around her like a shield.
The shadow's scream shook the chamber. "You carry her name too easily, child!"
The light surged. Thiya felt the song rise through her — not just the goddess's melody, but her own. Words she didn't know spilled from her tongue like fire and water entwined.
The darkness shattered.
When the silence fell, the pool was still again. The carvings glowed faintly. Thiya knelt, breathless.
"You did not sing to destroy," the voice whispered softly. "You sang to remember."
Her pendant shimmered — now streaked with a third color: silver.
Flame. Tide. Song.
Thiya stood slowly, the melody fading to a hum within her heartbeat. Outside, dawn painted the valley gold.
She stepped into the light, her reflection rippling faintly beside her. And for a moment, she heard her own voice echo back — older, stronger.
"Every song has its echo."
The pendant pulsed once, warm and alive.
And somewhere far to the east, the mirror stirred.