The ruins had always been silent, broken only by the wind sighing through the temple’s bones. But tonight, something felt different.
Mira stood at the heart of the temple, her fingers tracing the grooves in the ancient stone. The embers of the sacred fire still glowed faintly from her last encounter, as if waiting for her return.
A prickle ran down her spine.
She wasn’t alone.
A presence shifted in the darkness beyond the temple’s edge. The sensation wasn’t unfamiliar—she had felt it before, that watchful gaze—but this time, it was closer. Deliberate.
Mira turned slowly. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
She took a step forward, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Then—the whisper of steel.
The sound was unmistakable. A blade sliding from its sheath, the sharp promise of danger lingering in the air.
Before she could react, a figure stepped from the shadows.
A woman, tall and lean, dressed in the muted tones of a warrior long accustomed to the hunt. Her dark hair was braided tightly down her back, her eyes sharp as flint. A sword rested in her grip—not raised in attack, but held with the ease of someone who had wielded it all her life.
“Not much of a fighter, are you?” the woman murmured, her gaze assessing, calculating.
Mira swallowed hard. “I don’t even know who you are.”
The woman gave a humorless chuckle. “No. You don’t.”
Another presence stirred. From the deeper shadows of the ruins, a second figure emerged.
A man, taller and broader, his presence heavy with unspoken authority. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, his face lined not with age but with experience. He did not carry a weapon—at least not openly—but something about him told Mira he didn’t need one.
He studied her for a long moment, then turned toward the temple’s embers. “She rekindled the flame,” he said, his voice deep and measured.
The woman scoffed. “So? A little fire magic doesn’t make her a warrior.”
Mira bristled. “Who are you?”
The man exhaled, as if choosing his words carefully. “I am Vasushrava. This is Chitrangada.”
“We are the last of the temple’s warriors,” Chitrangada added. “The ones who remained when the world forgot what it meant to fight for the old ways.”
The weight of their words settled over Mira like a cloak.
She had spent so long trying to understand her own role in this mystery—why the temple called to her, why the Keepers spoke in riddles of what was lost. And now, here stood the last guardians of a forgotten order, watching her with suspicion and something else—expectation.
Vasushrava stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. “Do you know what you have awakened?”
Mira hesitated. “The fire.”
Chitrangada shook her head. “The fire is just a symbol. You have awakened something far greater.”
Mira’s mouth was dry. “Then tell me what it is.”
The two warriors exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them.
Finally, Vasushrava spoke. “Not here.” He turned to the darkened ruins. “There are eyes that should not see and ears that should not hear. If you truly seek the truth, then you must come with us.”
Mira hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to stay, to be cautious. But something deep within her—a pull she couldn’t name—urged her forward.
“Where are you taking me?”
Chitrangada smirked. “To where the last of us still remember.”
And with that, they disappeared into the night, leaving Mira with only one choice—to follow.
