Mira sat cross-legged on the temple floor, the warmth of the hearth flickering around her. The Keepers had vanished into the shadows again, leaving her alone with Chitrangada and Vasushrava. Her fingers still tingled from the touch of the sacred flame, the echoes of something ancient stirring within her.
Before her, Vasushrava held out a small, timeworn box. Its wooden surface was darkened with age, the edges carved with intricate symbols Mira didn’t recognize—except for one. At the very centre of the lid, faint but unmistakable, was the same symbol she had seen in her visions. The broken sigil.
Chitrangada’s voice was solemn as she gestured toward it. “This belonged to the last High Keeper of the temple, before the darkness came. It was thought to be lost when the temple fell… but it wasn’t.”
Mira frowned, glancing at Vasushrava. “Then where has it been all this time?”
Vasushrava’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was laced with something Mira couldn’t quite place—respect, reverence… and something heavier. “My ancestors were among the last warriors of the temple,” he said. “When the adversary’s forces came and the temple began to fall, the last High Keeper entrusted the amulet to one of them—my forefather.”
Mira’s breath caught.
“They were instructed to flee, to take it far from here,” Vasushrava continued. “The Keepers knew the temple would not survive the battle, and they believed the amulet should not fall into enemy hands.” He glanced at the silver disc resting inside the box. “It has been passed down in secret through my family ever since, waiting for the one meant to reclaim it.”
Mira hesitated before reaching for it. As her fingertips brushed the surface, a jolt ran through her—a sudden, visceral connection to something far older than herself. She could hear whispers, distant voices calling a name she didn’t yet understand.
Her own name.
Vasushrava unlatched the box and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of deep blue velvet, was an amulet. It was unlike anything Mira had ever seen—a silver disc, smooth and cold, its surface etched with the same ancient symbol. But at the heart of the design was an empty space, a hollow where something was once embedded. A missing stone.
Mira’s breath caught. “What is this?”
“The Amulet of the Forgotten Flame,” Vasushrava said, his voice reverent. “Forged in the first days of the temple, it was once worn by the one chosen to keep the balance.”
“The High Keeper,” Chitrangada added. “Or rather, the last of them.”
Mira swallowed. “And now… you’re giving it to me?”
Vasushrava’s gaze was steady. “You were meant to have it. This was never lost, Mira. It was waiting for you.”
Mira’s fingers closed around the amulet. The moment she touched it, warmth spread through her palm, up her arm, straight into her heart. It was as if the amulet recognized her—as if it had been searching for her all this time.
But something was wrong.
She could feel its power, a pulse of energy humming beneath the surface. And yet, it was incomplete.
She looked at the empty space where the missing stone should be. “What happened to it?”
Chitrangada’s expression darkened. “The stone was taken when the temple fell. Without it, the amulet is powerless. That’s why the light of the temple has faded.”
Mira tightened her grip. “Then we need to find it.”
Vasushrava nodded. “And not just the stone. The ones who still remember the old ways—the surviving goddess worshippers. They are the only ones who can help you restore what was lost.”
Mira felt her pulse quicken. This was bigger than she had imagined. She wasn’t just here to protect the temple—she had to bring it back to life.
She looked up at them, her resolve settling like steel in her bones. “Where do we start?”
