The temple walls loomed around Mira, ancient and watchful. The air felt thick, charged with something she could not name. She pressed forward, stepping over broken stone and tangled roots that had forced their way through the temple floor over centuries of neglect.
The whisper had been real. Someone—something—had spoken her name.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. There was no turning back now.
At the heart of the ruins lay the inner sanctum, a circular chamber where the remnants of a great altar stood. Though time had stripped it bare, Mira could still see traces of its former grandeur—golden inlays dulled by dust, intricate carvings barely visible beneath layers of moss and lichen.
A chill crawled up her spine.
Then, she saw it.
A flicker of flame, impossibly small, burning in the centre of the altar.
She blinked. It was gone.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“This place remembers you.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was neither a whisper nor a roar but something in between—a presence speaking through the very stones of the temple.
Mira staggered back, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice stronger than she felt.
Silence.
She turned in a slow circle, scanning the chamber for any sign of movement. Nothing.
Then, the air shifted. A deep, resonant hum filled the space, vibrating through her bones. The carvings on the walls, long thought lifeless, pulsed faintly with light—gold and amber, like embers stirring back to life.
And then, the first vision struck.
Pain lanced through her skull. She stumbled, barely catching herself as the world twisted and blurred around her.
She was no longer standing in the ruins.
She was inside the temple as it had once been.
The walls gleamed, freshly carved. Braziers burned with a golden fire that smelled of myrrh and sacred oils. The altar stood whole, its surface adorned with offerings—bowls of honey and milk, garlands of crimson flowers, and an ornate dagger glinting in the firelight.
The chamber was filled with figures—women dressed in robes of deep red, their faces half-hidden beneath veils embroidered with the same sun-and-spiral symbol she had traced outside. Their hands were raised in supplication, chanting words Mira somehow understood:
“She who guards the flame, she who keeps the way—awaken, awaken.”
A presence moved through the room; unseen yet undeniable. Power rippled in the air, something vast and ancient pressing against the edges of her mind.
And then, the vision shifted.
The temple was burning.
The women screamed; their voices swallowed by the roar of the flames. Shadows loomed at the edges of the vision—figures in dark cloaks, wielding weapons that gleamed with unnatural light. One of the priestesses reached for something, for someone—her face was obscured, but her voice rang clear.
“You must remember, Mira! You must—”
The vision shattered.
Mira gasped, collapsing to her knees on the cold stone floor of the ruins. Her head throbbed, her skin damp with sweat. The golden glow had faded from the walls, the temple once again silent and still.
But the words remained.
“You must remember.”
Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the altar, her breath unsteady.
This was no coincidence.
She had been called here for a reason.
And the past was demanding to be remembered.
