The Hall of Echoes had not been opened in a century.
It was carved deep into the mountainside behind the palace, where stone met silence. No tapestries, no warmth. Only old power and older secrets. This was where the truth of one's blood could be revealed—and judged.
Lyra stood at the threshold, heart pounding.
Two robed mages stood before the archway, chanting in a language she didn't recognize, but somehow understood. She was beginning to hate how often that happened.
A silvery mist parted as the doors creaked open, revealing a dark chamber lit only by a floating orb of blue fire.
The High Mage approached her.
"This place will test you," he said. "It will call out to what sleeps in your veins. You must answer."
"What happens if I fail?" Lyra asked.
"You'll know."
---
Inside, the chamber felt timeless.
There were no visible walls—just black stone and endless echoes. At the center stood a pedestal with a single obsidian bowl.
"Place your hand within," the mage instructed.
Lyra approached slowly.
As her palm hovered over the bowl, the air thickened, heavy as syrup. She hesitated—then placed her hand into the dark basin.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a sharp pulse—like lightning beneath her skin—coursed through her body.
She gasped. Visions flashed before her eyes.
A golden city…
A throne of stars…
A voice: You must not remember.
And then, a scream—not hers, but hers all the same.
---
Outside the chamber, the council waited in tense silence.
King Alaric stood with arms crossed, his gaze locked on the doors. Beside him, Lord Caelum and Minister Yseult exchanged nervous glances.
"She's been in there too long," Halden muttered.
"She's not human," Caelum said. "Time may not flow the same for her."
"Or it's already consuming her," Halden spat.
Yseult folded her arms. "You sound disappointed."
---
Inside, Lyra dropped to her knees.
The bowl glowed with golden light now—liquid and alive. Her palm had begun to shine, a sigil forming there: a circle surrounded by seven wings.
The orb of fire above her split into fragments, each hovering around her like a constellation.
Then a voice filled the chamber.
Not spoken, not heard—felt.
"Daughter of the Veiled Flame... your blood remembers."
Her vision blurred.
Memories not hers crashed over her like a tide.
She saw herself walking among golden spires, cloaked in starlight. Speaking in council with beings of light and flame. Lifting bread to starving villagers in a field of ash.
A single command echoed in her mind: "Go. Live. Forget."
She was cast down.
She became Lyra.
---
When she awoke, she was lying on a stone floor, surrounded by the floating shards of light.
The sigil on her palm pulsed once—then faded.
The High Mage's voice echoed faintly: "She is waking."
The doors creaked open. King Alaric stepped forward.
"Lyra?"
She blinked up at him, dazed.
"I saw... I don't know what I saw."
"Do you remember anything more?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Only feelings. Fire. Bread. Wings."
Yseult chuckled behind him. "A goddess of breakfast, perhaps."
The king shot her a look, but Lyra laughed softly.
"Could be worse."
---
Back in the council chamber, the debate began anew.
"The sigil is real," said the High Mage. "It matches ancient records of divine messengers—servants of the High Flame."
"A demigoddess?" Caelum asked.
"No," the mage said gravely. "Not a fragment. A full spirit. Sealed. Reborn."
The Arch-Priestess stood again.
"Then the prophecy was not metaphor. It was instruction."
Halden slammed his hand on the table.
"This is absurd. We are not meant to play house with a fallen goddess!"
"She's not fallen," Yseult countered. "She's simply walking."
King Alaric said nothing for a long time.
Then: "She stays. Under watch. But not hidden. Let the people see her."
"That will spark unrest," Caelum warned.
"Then we will control the narrative," Alaric said.
---
That night, Lyra sat on the edge of her bed, still staring at her palm.
Nothing was there now—but she could feel it. A hum, deep and low.
There was a knock.
She turned as a palace scribe entered, bowing low.
"His Majesty requests your presence tomorrow. There will be a public ceremony of acknowledgment."
"Acknowledgment?"
The scribe nodded. "Of your survival. And... your identity."
Lyra's eyes widened. "What identity?"
"He did not say."
---
The next morning, the palace square was crowded.
Nobles. Servants. Merchants. Even commoners had been allowed near the gates. Whispers filled the air.
"The goddess girl."
"She walked through the Echoes?"
"Maybe she is the one from the verse."
On a raised platform, Lyra stood beside King Alaric. Guards flanked the edges. The High Mage held a scroll in his hand, his voice amplified by spellwork.
"Let it be known," he declared, "that Lyra of Durnvale has passed the Test of Echoes. That within her flows the sealed spark of a divine flame. That she is not a threat, but a mystery—and under royal protection."
A beat.
Then the king spoke:
"Let her walk these halls not as prisoner, but as seeker. Let her be watched—but not caged. Judged—but not condemned."
Cheers did not erupt. Only silence.
But in that silence, something stirred.
Respect. Fear. Wonder.
Lyra stood tall, unsure of which she deserved most.
---
Back in her chambers, she opened a package left on her bed.
Inside: a fresh loaf of bread. Her mother's recipe.
No note. No signature.
Just warmth.
She broke it in half, smiled, and whispered to the empty room,
"Maybe I'm still her, after all."