-Tan'thalon, noble district-
Struggling with his recent discussion with himself, Eldarion had sought ways to calm his mind. There was simply no way those thoughts could have been his own. Could they? He was one of May'Jahan's chosen. A holy warrior, bound by the paladin's oath. Even Ba'Ham himself couldn't invade his mind. He'd enforced it with walls of steel. Wandering the streets, he laid eyes on a secluded noble salon. Finally, he would be among his own kin. Entering through the decorated doors, he was greeted by candlelight flickering through smoky crystal lamps. In the back of the room he saw the night's entertainment, a beautiful display of a dancing couple. The rest of the chamber seemed quiet, draped in silks that dulled the excess sound. As he settled down, a woman in dark violet robes stepped forward, her eyes glowing a faint violet hue under her hood. She bowed slightly, her voice a velvet whisper.
"Lord Eldarion. Champion. What brings you here?" As she spoke she gently laid a hand on his shoulder. A comforting touch.
"How do you know my name?" He quirked an eyebrow "Actually, never mind. I was just looking for some distraction".
"If that is the case, may I sit with you?"
Before he could object, she was already seated opposite him. That is, if he wanted to object. The woman removed her hood, revealing shoulder length blonde hair with purple tips, adding to an overall exotic look.
"If I may be so bold? You look troubled."
Eldarion sighed.
"I feel like I am stuck. That blind witch is stealing what is rightfully mine, and the council…".
"The council wastes you. I've seen it in their eyes — they nod while you speak, then cut your words into ribbons the moment you leave. They fear your strength."
The woman intervened, the glow in her eyes flaring slightly. Eldarion in turn became a little tense and guarded.
"They… are cautious. Blind. But I am May'Jahan's chosen. They will learn, in time."
The woman lifted a hand, the candles obeyed and bent and flickered, weaving images in the smoke. Talia and the Diviner laughing together, standing close, while the council bowed to the blind woman's words. Eldarion stiffened.
"And yet… time favors others. Look how quickly she eclipses you. A blind woman, a fighter from the gutters, dares to claim Tan'thalon's heart. While you — the paladin, the heir of promise — are reduced to pleading for scraps of their faith." The woman coaxed softly.
Eldarion breathed hard, clenching his fists.
"No… Talia is mine. The Diviner twists her. She steals what belongs to me."
The violet woman smiled faintly, leaning in closer. Her voice drawing lines in the candle's smoke.
"Then take it back. Not with supplication. With power. You could command the council. You could lead Tan'thalon's armies. All it requires… is the will to seize what the weak would deny you."
Her hand brushed his arm. For a moment, the images in the smoke shifted again. Eldarion on the council dais, draped in glory, the city cheering his name, Talia at his side, the Diviner's broken body cast in shadow. His breath quickened. SThe woman's voice lowered to a whisper.
"Stand with me, Eldarion. And I will show you how to turn whispers into thrones."
Eldarion stared at the vision, his pride and resentment warring against the last tethers of his faith. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, unsteady voice.
"Yes… they will see. They will all see."
He got to his feet and strode out, his pride strengthened, now with his usual flair again. The woman watched as he left, her lips curling up in a faint smirk.
"Why him, Selvara?" A raspy voice behind her asked.
She turned to see a man in dark green attire, his face hidden beneath a large cowl. Her eyes flared again, casting a soft violet hue.
"Because our lord grows impatient, Keryth. The wardens are taking too long. Ineffective."
She took a sip from her drink, as elegant as one would expect from a woman with her looks. Then, she continued.
"He is in a prime position. In the high circles and yet influenceable."
"Why now?"
Selvara's smile turned upwards in a wicked grin.
"Can't you feel it? One of his temples stirs."
-The temple of Bakh'Emeth-
The silence that followed felt almost holy—too vast, too heavy to disturb. Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the weak light of Talia's gauntlet like flecks of gold in murky water. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then the Diviner turned her head slightly.
"Do you hear that?"
Talia strained her ears. Nothing but the slow, steady drip of water in the dark.
"No."
"Exactly," the Diviner murmured. "The Keeper's gone, but its silence has weight. There's a chamber ahead. It remembers too much."
She moved first, guided not by sight but by the subtle hum in the air that only she could feel. Talia followed, her light pushing back the dark in trembling circles. The air grew cooler, denser, and the scent changed—from dust to something older, coppery, like blood long turned to dust. The passage opened into a vast hall. The light reached only a fraction of it, but what it touched was enough. Rows upon rows of skeletons lay where they had fallen, some clutching weapons rusted beyond recognition, others still kneeling as though in prayer. They stretched far into the dark, a congregation frozen mid-supplication.
"Gods…" Talia whispered.
"No," the Diviner said softly. "Not gods. Their victims."
She knelt, brushing her fingers over the nearest skull.
"Ba'Ham's fire burned here. I can still feel it—the scorch in the stone, the rage in the air. This was one of his sanctums once. When May'Jahan opposed him, her followers tried to claim it for the living."
"And he burned them alive."
"Worse." The Diviner's voice was hollow. "He unmade them."
Talia crouched beside her, frowning. "Unmade?"
"He took the spark of life that May'Jahan gave them and twisted it into something else—something that could serve him. When the war ended, both gods vanished, but the remnants of their war… stayed."
Talia's light flickered as a sudden chill passed over them. She glanced around, heart pounding. Her stomach turned.
"He made demons."
"Worse than demons. Reflections of what he wanted to be—creators. But his fire could only mimic life. They burned themselves from the inside out."
The floor beneath them was scarred and blackened, as if the stone itself had melted once. In the flicker of Talia's light, she could make out shapes fused into the ground—distorted forms, their bones warped and half-absorbed into the rock, like wax figures caught in mid-scream.
"These are his children," she whispered. "The failed ones."
"Failures still burn," the Diviner said quietly. "They're never gone."
Talia swallowed hard and turned to move deeper into the chamber. Her light caught another row of skeletons—these different from the rest. The bones were thinner, the skulls narrower, and their ribcages flared outward to support long, curved joints. Wings.
"These…" she breathed, stepping closer. "These aren't his."
The Diviner's brow furrowed. "Describe them."
"Tall. Lithe. The wings—structured like bats, but strong. And the skulls… they're not monstrous. They're almost beautiful."
The Diviner exhaled slowly. "Then the Nyxir were here too."
"The what?"
"An ancient race," she said. "Before the Arc Wall, before the storms. Night-born, winged, bound to the old winds. They lived in the high caves, worshiped silence and sky. If they were here…" She trailed off, grim. "Then they fought for May'Jahan."
"And Ba'Ham slaughtered them."
"No," the Diviner said softly. "He corrupted them."
Talia turned back toward the demonic remains fused into the ground—the twisted bones, the scorched skulls. The difference between the Nyxir and Ba'Ham's children was stark now: one elegant and natural, the other brutal and malformed.
"He tried to turn them," she said. "The Nyxir."
"Yes. He wanted their grace, their wings—their freedom. But fire does not give; it takes. What he made instead were hollow things. Flames wearing flesh."
A deep creak rolled through the hall, reverberating off the stone. Talia froze. The bones around them shuddered—first a tremor, then a slow, collective shift. Dust poured down from the ceiling as the floor began to quake beneath their boots.
"Diviner…"
"He's still here," she whispered. "Not Ba'Ham himself, but the memory of his fire. It's waking them."
From the far end of the hall, one of the fused skeletons began to glow faintly within its chest cavity—an ember reigniting after centuries. Then another. And another. Soon, the chamber was filling with dull, orange light as hundreds of bones began to stir, heat rippling through them like breath.
"They're burning again," Talia said, stepping back.
"No," the Diviner replied, her voice barely steady. "They're remembering."
The first of Ba'Ham's children tore free from the stone with a sound like breaking glass—its molten spine arching, its mouth splitting open in a soundless scream. The fire inside it flared bright as a forge, painting the hall in blood-orange light. Behind it, others began to rise, wingless but radiant with living flame. Talia raised her sword, her light answering the fire.
"Then we make them forget too," she growled.
The hall breathed. That was the only word Talia could find for it. Every stone, every bone seemed to draw in air, then exhale heat. The pale light from her gauntlet flickered against the rising glow of the rekindled dead—two fires, one gold and clean, the other molten and ravenous. The contrast made her stomach twist. When her light touched the flames within Ba'Ham's children, it didn't banish them—it fed them. The pure shimmer of her holy fire bled into the cursed embers, brightening them, making their movements sharper, their eyes burn hotter.
"Diviner," she whispered, stepping back. "My light—it's making them stronger."
"Then stop," the blind woman rasped.
She was shaking now, sweat slick on her pale skin. Her magic had burned too long in the ruins above.
"You can't fight fire with fire, Wildfire. Not his."
"Then what do we do?"
The Diviner's lips parted, but no answer came. Around them, the hall glowed brighter as one by one the Children rose from their molten graves. Their forms were vaguely humanoid but twisted, their limbs uneven, fingers like half-cooled iron hooks. Veins of fire pulsed beneath cracked, blackened skin. They did not breathe—but their heat filled the air like a furnace.
"They're not looking at us," Talia whispered.
"Not yet," the Diviner murmured. "They're remembering how."
The temperature climbed, the air shimmering. Talia's armor began to sting against her skin. She looked toward the exit, a low archway at the far end of the hall, half-collapsed under rubble.
"We can't stay here."
"If we move too quickly, they'll hear."
"If we don't move, we'll burn."
The Diviner hesitated, then nodded.
"The Keeper's silence still lingers in the corridor we came from. If we stay close to it, they might not sense us."
Talia took her hand again—steady, despite the tremor in her own.
"Then we go. Quietly."
Step by step, they moved through the field of reawakening corpses. The light from Talia's gauntlet dimmed to a faint shimmer, just enough to see the Diviner's outline. Each step was agony; the air blistered her throat, her armor seared against her shoulders. Behind them came the faint crackle of flame and the low, dissonant groan of something trying to speak through ash. They slipped through the broken archway just as the nearest of the Children turned its head toward the sound of their movement. Talia didn't look back. The corridor beyond was cooler, the heat dimming to a bearable warmth. For a few breaths, they said nothing—just the sound of their boots on stone, the faint hiss of Talia's gauntlet light. Then, from somewhere above, came that sound again.
A soft click.
Talia froze, sword half-drawn.
"You hear that?"
The Diviner tilted her head.
"Yes… the same sound as before. From the beams."
Before she could answer, something moved in the darkness ahead—fast, silent, gliding along the wall like a shadow with shape. Talia raised her sword, light flaring instinctively. The creature hissed and recoiled, wings unfurling in a blur of motion that filled the corridor.
"Stay back!" she shouted, stepping forward.
The light glared against sleek, dark membranes that stretched nearly wall to wall. For an instant she saw it clearly—tall, lean, its skin a soft grey-black like ashstone, eyes glinting silver in the dim. The wings folded tightly again, their edges sharp as blades. Its face was unmistakably intelligent—and not human.
"Ba'Ham's demon," Talia hissed, raising her blade.
"No!" The Diviner's voice cracked. "Don't!"
The figure's head tilted toward the sound, its nostrils flaring. It spoke, its voice low and raw from disuse, the syllables rough but clear.
"You… burn wrong."
Talia blinked. The voice wasn't angry—just wary.
"You're not one of his," the Diviner said softly, stepping forward.
The creature's silver eyes shifted toward her.
"No. I am Nyxir. I watched you wake the bones."
Talia's grip on her sword loosened. "You were the one above the beams."
The Nyxir nodded once. "I thought you servants of flame. But you ran. You live."
Its gaze flicked toward the corridor behind them, where a faint red glow still pulsed.
"They will follow soon."
The Diviner swayed on her feet, catching herself on the wall.
"Then help us," she said, voice breaking.
The Nyxir's wings unfurled again, the sound of stretched leather whispering through the silence.
"I can show you the way out," it said, "but the temple hungers for memory. You'll have to leave something behind."
Talia frowned, chest still heaving. "What does that mean?"
"It means," the Nyxir said, "that to leave this place, you must let it forget you."
The Nyxir folded its wings close, the movement silent, like silk folding into shadow. In the dimness, Talia could see the faint pattern of scars across its chest—burn marks, circular and precise, like brands.
"Leave something behind?" Talia repeated, still catching her breath. "What are you talking about?"
The Nyxir tilted its head, those silver eyes reflecting her dim light.
"This place is not dead, Paladin. It remembers all who walk its bones. The Keeper, the fire, the voices—it is all the same memory. To pass beyond it, you must separate yourself from its dream."
"You mean forget."
"Not quite," it said. "To forget is to lose. To be forgotten is to live free."
The Diviner leaned against the wall, listening intently.
"I've heard of this. The temples of Ba'Ham were built as mirrors—they recorded all who entered. He feared nothing more than being alone in eternity, so he bound memory into stone."
The Nyxir nodded slowly. "And when the gods struck him down, they cursed the mirrors to keep reflecting forever. They do not know he is gone. They still collect."
Talia frowned, lowering her sword slightly. "Collect what?"
"Names," the Nyxir said simply. "Voices. Faces. Every thought that burns bright enough to be seen. Every life that refuses to fade. That is why the dead still burn below."
The Diviner's hand trembled as she pressed it to her temple.
"It explains why the Keeper called to us—why it felt us in the stone. We've already been marked."
"Marked?" Talia turned sharply. "You mean—this place knows us?"
"Knows you," the Nyxir corrected, glancing toward Talia's still-faintly glowing gauntlet. "Holy light is memory in its purest form. The temple drinks it. It will not let you go easily."
Talia took an involuntary step back, as if she could somehow separate herself from her own light.
"So what are you saying? I just… let it take part of me?"
The Nyxir's expression softened, though his voice carried an ache centuries deep.
"You must choose what you want the temple to forget. A face, a promise, a name. Leave it behind, and it will not follow you out."
"That's barbaric," she hissed. "You expect me to carve out part of myself just to walk free?"
"It is not cruelty," he said. "It is balance. The temple keeps its stories, and you keep your life."
The Diviner had gone quiet, her sightless eyes lowered.
"You've done this before," she murmured. "That's why you're still here. You gave something up."
The Nyxir's wings twitched once, a soft shiver through the air.
"I gave my name. It was the first thing this place took, and the only thing I could offer willingly. I have been nameless ever since."
Talia stared at him, torn between pity and disbelief. "Then how are you still sane?"
"Names are only chains to the past," the Nyxir said. "Without mine, I am lighter. I survive." His gaze shifted toward her. "But your kind—your faith—it is built on memory. On vows. On the weight of promises made to gods and mortals alike. What will you give, Paladin?"
She opened her mouth, but no words came. For a moment, she saw flashes—her Order's crest, her mentor's hand on her shoulder, the laughter of her sister before the war. Things she'd sworn never to lose. The Diviner's hand found hers, weak but steady.
"If you don't choose, Wildfire," she whispered, "the temple will choose for you."
"And what about you?" Talia asked, her throat tight. "What would you give up?"
The Diviner smiled faintly, sadness softening her face.
"I've already given too much. My sight, my rest, my peace. Maybe this place will take my fear next."
The Nyxir inclined his head respectfully. "Then you will walk lightest of all."
The silence between them stretched. Beyond it, the faint red glow in the hall began to brighten—the sound of cracking bone and whispering flame growing closer. The Children of Ba'Ham were waking fully now.
"Time," the Nyxir said, his wings twitching. "Decide quickly. The temple does not wait."
Talia's heart pounded. She could feel the heat rising again from behind them, the air vibrating with the march of burning footsteps.
"If I give up something," she said, "will I remember that I did?"
"No," the Nyxir said softly. "You'll only feel lighter—and emptier. You will know a wound you cannot name."
Talia's hand trembled at her side.
"Choose," the Nyxir said again, voice low and almost kind. "Or the fire will choose for you."
The air changed again. A low hum thrummed through the stone beneath their feet—steady, rhythmic, like the slow pulse of a creature's heart buried deep below. Dust fell in thin streams from the ceiling as something massive shifted in the dark hall behind them. The Nyxir turned its head sharply, nostrils flaring.
"They are coming."
The Diviner straightened, clutching Talia's arm for balance.
"The Children."
From the corridor they had left behind came a flicker of light—not Talia's gold, but a crawling, molten red that rolled along the walls like blood in water. The air itself shimmered with heat, and the faint shapes of figures began to emerge in it: blackened bone, flickering sinew, and the glow of living embers pulsing in their hollow chests. Each step they took left scorched footprints behind. The temple groaned. Beams above them cracked, the sound sharp as thunder in a tomb.
"There is no more time," the Nyxir said, stepping closer. "Choose what the temple will take, or you will burn with its memory."
Talia backed up, sword raised. "You can't ask me to just—just rip part of myself away!"
The Diviner's voice trembled but held its calm.
"Talia. If we don't, there won't be a self left to save."
The Nyxir spread his wings, dark against the molten light. "The fire knows your light now. It will come for you first."
Heat pressed in on all sides—smoke without flame, the scent of charred metal, the faint scream of something ancient remembering how to hate. The first of the Children appeared fully, crawling over the corpses of their still-dead kin, their molten eyes reflecting the gold of Talia's trembling torch-light. Talia's gauntlet flared instinctively in response, holy light and cursed flame meeting mid-air—sparking, fighting, devouring each other. The collision sent a shockwave through the corridor, tearing cracks across the walls and throwing both women back a step.
"Wildfire—!" The Diviner's cry was swallowed by the roar of collapsing stone.
Talia staggered, her hand gripping the Diviner's shoulder, both of them staring into the advancing tide of half-formed demons, the Nyxir's calm silhouette between them and the fire.
"You must decide!" the Nyxir shouted over the din. "Give the temple your memory—or it will take your flesh!"
The hall shuddered again, a rain of dust and debris falling around them. The light from Talia's gauntlet flickered violently, caught between two forces that refused to yield. She turned toward the Diviner—toward the only person whose hand she still held—and her mouth opened as if to speak, to name the thing she could lose. But the sound never came. The stone gave way beneath their feet, and the world fell with them.
The fall ended in silence. Not the silence of death, but of something vast and patient. When Talia opened her eyes, she was standing in a courtyard washed in the pale light of dawn. The scent of wet stone and smoke was achingly familiar. She knew this place—the training grounds of the Order, years ago. But she shouldn't be here. Across the yard, two younger paladins whispered together, glancing her way. Their words were faint, but she remembered every one of them: unnatural,wrong,not one of us.
At the center of it all stood a younger version of herself, armor too large, hands clenched at her sides, jaw tight to keep from trembling. The moment she had buried so deep she'd almost convinced herself it had never happened.
"This is what the temple took," said a voice beside her.
The Diviner was there, half-transparent in the soft light, her blind eyes wide as if they could see for the first time.
"It's showing me what you've given up."
Talia's throat closed. "Then you can see it?"
"I can feel it."
The Diviner's hand brushed the air, tracing the outline of the younger Talia—angry, ashamed, desperate not to cry.
"This is where you learned to hide the parts of yourself that didn't fit the mold they gave you. The light you've carried ever since was born here, out of defiance."
The younger Talia turned, eyes fierce with a pain the present one had long since learned to mask.
"You don't understand," she whispered.
The Diviner did not answer. Instead, she stepped forward, and the image of the courtyard shuddered. The whispers fell silent. The younger Talia's anger dissolved into a quiet, trembling kind of courage.
"You were never wrong for loving as you do," the Diviner said softly. "But you believed it cost you your place, your faith. That's the wound you've carried."
Talia bowed her head. "Then this is what I've given up. The memory that made me build walls even you couldn't see through."
The Diviner reached toward her, the edges of her form flickering.
"Only I will remember. That's the bargain."
The world began to fracture around them—light bleeding through cracks in the air like dawn through broken glass. The courtyard folded in on itself, the younger paladins vanishing, the stones dissolving into sand.
"Talia," the Diviner said, voice distant now, "when you wake, you'll feel lighter. But I'll carry this for you. I'll remember who you were, and why you fought so hard to be yourself."
Talia tried to speak, but her lips formed no sound. The world turned white—
—and then grey.
She gasped awake on cold stone, lungs burning. Above her loomed the cavern's roof, a lattice of blackened beams and faintly glowing runes. The Diviner lay beside her, breathing shallowly but alive. Between them stood the Nyxir, wings half-spread, the silver of his eyes dim.
"You fell farther than most survive," he said quietly. "The temple wanted to keep you, but I bargained for your lives."
Talia pushed herself up, dizzy. "What did you give it?"
"A memory of my own," he replied. "Now we both walk lighter."
He turned toward the dark corridor ahead, where a faint wind whispered upward.
"The way out lies beyond. But remember this—what the temple takes, it never returns. And what it leaves behind, it binds."
Talia glanced at the Diviner, whose expression was unreadable.
"You don't remember what you lost, do you?" the blind woman asked softly.
Talia frowned. "No. Should I?"
"No," the Diviner said, forcing a small smile. "It's better that way."
They rose together, the Nyxir leading them deeper into the temple's hollow heart, the echoes of forgotten fire following close behind.
The Nyxir had been wandering the temple for a long time. As such he had discovered certain safe spots, places where the temple was in an eternal slumber. At one such point, he decided to give the pair some much welcome rest. Talia had decided to get as comfortable as she could. The stress on both body and mind had been building up for several days now, and within minutes she was fast asleep. The Diviner wasn't so lucky. She'd been pushing herself over her own limits several times over, going beyond her exhaustion. She couldn't sleep now, even if she wanted to. She remembered her training and breathed in through her nose, and out the mouth. Her breathing steadied, but her pulse still beat too loudly in her ears. The stone under her palm throbbed faintly, as if it held its own slow heart. When she reached out with her other senses, she felt the echo—a thousand overlapping whispers, a place thinking of itself. The Nyxir sat a few paces away, wings folded close, eyes half-closed as if listening to something very far off.
"You said the temple remembers," the Diviner murmured. "Show me what it remembered last."
He inclined his head once. "You will not like what you see."
The air shifted; the world bent. And suddenly she was standing in the square of a living village. Lanterns swayed in the wind. Children ran barefoot through the dust. For a moment it was ordinary, warm, alive. Then the smell of ash began to creep in. From the well, a woman's voice rose in song—old, trembling, wrong. It wasn't a song anyone there should have known. It was an invocation to Ba'Ham, the Fire Father, the god of magic. The people nearest her stopped to listen. A man dropped his tools. A child began to hum along, eyes unfocused. The Diviner saw how it spread: one by one, faces going still, lips mouthing words their throats had never learned. The whole village breathing as one, chanting as one. The earth beneath the well split open, light seeping through the cracks.
"It began with dreams," the Nyxir's voice said beside her, though his form was faint. "They dreamed of the old wars—of Ba'Ham's victory, of May'Jahan's betrayal. They woke with tears that were not their own. They stopped trusting their neighbors. They stopped trusting themselves."
The vision shifted. The villagers were armed now—pitchforks, kitchen knives, rusted swords. Their eyes burned with reflected flame as the first houses caught.
"Some thought they were his priests reborn," the Nyxir continued. "Others thought they were her avengers. In the end, they all burned for someone else's cause."
Through the smoke, the Diviner saw him—whole, unscarred, his name still his own—trying to pull them back, to break the chant. They turned on him, calling him demon, echo, thief of memory. When he spread his wings to shield a child from the fire, they saw only the shadow and screamed. The child's small hand slipped from his grasp and vanished in the flame.
The Diviner staggered as the vision broke. The Nyxir's voice was quiet when it returned.
"When it was over, the temple had fed well. Every soul it touched was folded into its walls. The village was gone by dawn. Only the echo remained."
She opened her eyes. The sanctum was still. Talia slept nearby, face slack, unaware.
"You stayed here," the Diviner said softly. "All this time."
The Nyxir nodded. "Someone had to keep the temple dreaming slowly. If it wakes too fast, it will remember everything again."
"And now that we've come?"
His silver eyes met hers, weary and sad. "Now it knows there are new memories to collect."
He rose, wings rustling softly. "Rest while you can. When the temple starts to dream again, it will come looking for her light first."
The Diviner turned toward Talia, a knot tightening in her chest. She wanted to wake her, to tell her what she had learned, but she couldn't bring herself to. Some truths, she thought, were meant to be carried by only one heart at a time. Outside the sanctum, somewhere in the buried corridors, a single note of music drifted up from the stone—faint, echoing, like a lullaby half-remembered by the dead. The air had gone still again, thick with the scent of dust and copper. Talia slept beside a shattered pillar, the faint shimmer of her light magic pulsing gently around her — more instinct than will. The Diviner sat across from the Nyxir, the faint glow painting the edge of his wings in molten gold. He sat like a statue carved from night, motionless but for the occasional flicker of an eyelid, or the tightening of his claws in the stone.
"You never answered me," the Diviner said softly. "What happens when it wakes?"
The Nyxir did not move for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was with the tired certainty of someone who had rehearsed this answer across centuries.
"When it wakes," he said, "it will remember everything. Every life it has taken, every prayer, every scream. It will speak all those voices at once, until the air itself burns with memory. Then it will reach for the surface again."
The Diviner's fingers traced the cracked runes at her side. "And the world above?"
"It will dream with the temple," he said. "The fields will echo with war-cries from a thousand years ago. The rivers will carry whispers instead of water. People will forget who they are — not through madness, but through too much truth."
The Diviner decided not to tell the Nyxir of the desert. She didn't know how long he had been down here. There was nothing for the temple to feed on on the surface now. Not for miles. Then again, she didn't know the temple's reach either. After all, Ba'Ham's whispers had reached all the way to Tan'Thalon.
"Too much truth?" she echoed.
"To remember everything," the Nyxir said, "is to forget how to live."
She fell silent, absorbing the weight of it. The temple's hum seemed deeper now, the stone almost breathing around them.
"You said it will reach for the surface," she said. "To destroy?"
"No." His wings shifted, a whisper of silk and bone. "To be known. That was always Ba'Ham's hunger — to be remembered, never to fade. The temples are what remains of that hunger. They will call to every thinking mind it can find. And if enough of them answer…"
"It will remake him," the Diviner finished.
He inclined his head. "In reflection, if not in body."
"You said temples. Plural. Are there others?" The Diviner inquired.
"The other gods have more than one temple. Why wouldn't Ba'ham? If they are all like this one, I do not know."
For a moment, neither spoke. The faint sound of Talia's breathing steadied the quiet between them. The Diviner turned her blind eyes toward the sleeping paladin.
"She doesn't remember what she lost. But I do. I carry it now. Her pain, her defiance, her shame." She exhaled slowly. "If the temple feeds on memory, it will find me first."
The Nyxir's expression softened — not pity, but recognition.
"You see too much. You feel too deeply. That is what keeps you alive here."
"And you?" she asked.
"I am already part of it," he said quietly. "Bound to its will, but not yet its voice. That is why I can warn you."
"And if it wakes fully?"
"Then my voice will join the others." His silver eyes met hers. "And I will call your names as enemies."
The Diviner's hand tightened on her staff, the faintest tremor betraying the calm in her tone.
"Then we can't let that happen."
"No," he said. "But know this: if you flee, the temple will follow. If you fight, it will consume. The only true escape is to forget it ever existed."
She smiled faintly. "You know I can't do that."
"I know." His wings folded closer. "That is why I will help you, while I still can."
A faint vibration passed through the ground — slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat returning after long dormancy. The walls seemed to sigh, the old runes glowing faintly brighter. The Nyxir turned toward the darkness of the next passage.
"It's starting to remember again."
The Diviner rose, every joint protesting, and steadied herself with her staff.
"Then we wake her," she said, glancing toward Talia, "and we move before it knows we're still here."
The Nyxir gave a small nod, something almost reverent in the gesture.
"Move quietly," he murmured. "We walk inside a god's dying dream."
"We wake her," the Diviner said, steadying herself with one hand on the wall. Her fingers traced the pulse in the stone — a heartbeat that wasn't her own. The Nyxir gave a low nod, crouching beside Talia's still form.
"Careful. The temple still dreams through her. Pull too sharply, and it may keep what remains."
"It already took enough," the Diviner murmured.
She crouched and placed her palm just above Talia's chest. The light there was faint, flickering like a candle that couldn't decide if it wanted to live or not.
"She's warm. That's good."
"Warm," the Nyxir repeated softly. "Yes. But colder than before."
The Diviner frowned. "You always talk like that?"
"Only when there's truth to it."
She exhaled through her nose, then reached deeper — not with sight, but with sense. She found Talia's heartbeat and breathing, steady and soft. Softer than before, more at peace than before. For a moment, she thought she could feel a void where an old wound used to be.
"She's dreaming of a life that's gone," the Diviner said. "I can't see it, but I can feel the grief of it. She's lighter now."
"The temple feeds on burdens," the Nyxir murmured. "And leaves only what is easy to bear."
"You say that like it's a mercy."
"Mercy and cruelty often share a cup."
The Diviner huffed a soft laugh, low and wry. "You sound like me before I lost my charm."
"Before?"
She tilted her head, and there it was — a glimmer of playfulness that hadn't existed before.
A sly curve of her lips. "You'll see."
She leaned forward, close enough that her whisper brushed Talia's cheek.
"Wake up, Wildfire," she murmured, her voice threaded with amusement. "The world didn't end while you were gone. I'd hate for you to miss your chance to save it."
The Nyxir tilted his head, curious. "You speak with laughter now."
"Do I?" She smiled, touching her temple. "Feels good. Haven't done that in years."
"What did you lose?" he asked quietly.
The Diviner looked down at her hands — steady, sure, unshaking. Then, for the briefest moment, her smile dimmed.
"A fear I thought kept me safe."
"Fear of what?"
She turned her sightless eyes toward him, and for a heartbeat, they gleamed as though they did see him — saw too much, even.
"Of being seen. Of others seeing me as I am. Of happiness."
The Nyxir's wings flexed once, a faint ripple through the dust.
"Then you are dangerous now."
"Finally," she said, grinning. "Someone notices."
Talia stirred at that moment, blinking groggily. "Wha—where…"
"Still in the temple, love" the Diviner said smoothly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "But on the plus side, you missed the part where it tried to eat us."
"Eat us?"
"Metaphorically. Probably." The Diviner's grin widened when Talia shot her a bewildered look.
"You're… different," Talia said slowly, trying to sit up.
"Oh? Do you prefer solemn and mysterious, or witty and delightful?"
"I preferred predictable."
"Then you'll hate what comes next."
The Nyxir's shadow loomed over them. "Enough jesting. The sanctum is shifting again. You must move."
"Yes, yes," the Diviner said airily, rising with deceptive grace. "But it wouldn't kill you to admit I make the doom sound charming."
The Nyxir's expression didn't change, though his silver eyes narrowed slightly.
"When you start to sound like Ba'Ham's echoes, I'll remember you said that."
The Diviner smirked, even as the ground beneath them rumbled softly, the temple's heartbeat quickening.
"Then we'd best stay ahead of the echo, hm?"
She extended a hand to Talia, fingers curling just short of teasing.
"Come on, Wildfire. Let's go see what our disgraced god left buried."
The corridor they followed sloped downward, the air thicker now, like they were walking into a mouth that never stopped breathing. Their footsteps were muffled by layers of dust that had lain undisturbed for centuries. Somewhere above, stone moaned faintly, as though the temple itself turned in restless sleep.
Talia walked a few paces behind the Diviner. The paladin's glow painted soft halos around the other woman's silhouette — the slope of her shoulders, the fall of her hair, the barest hint of a smile that lingered there for no reason at all. It was that smile that unsettled her most. The Diviner never smiled like that before.
"You're quiet," the Diviner said lightly. "A rare thing for you."
"I'm thinking," Talia replied.
"Mm. Dangerous habit."
The paladin frowned. "You sound different."
"Do I?" She half-turned, blind eyes glinting in the dim light, as if she could see the discomfort she was causing. "Maybe the temple knocked something loose."
"That's not funny."
"Isn't it?" The Diviner smiled wider. "After all, you nearly died. I nearly burned. Yet here we are — walking, talking, looking wonderful in ruin. You'd think we'd celebrate the miracle."
Talia hesitated, then looked away. "You didn't used to talk like that."
"Maybe I didn't used to live like this," the Diviner said softly. "Maybe I was waiting for something to shake the dust off me."
The tone — playful, warm, but edged with something almost reckless — made Talia's stomach knot.
"You're not yourself."
The Diviner tilted her head, curious. "And what does that mean? That the solemn woman who lectured you about discipline and duty was the real me?"
"She cared," Talia said before she could stop herself. "She was careful."
"Oh, I still care, Wildfire." Her voice lowered, teasing, but sincere beneath it. "Just differently. Care can look like caution. Or it can look like defiance. You, of all people, should know that."
Talia's jaw tightened. "You're enjoying this."
"Maybe." The Diviner smiled again — a flash of teeth that wasn't cruel, just alive. "Maybe the temple took something I don't miss."
"And if that something was important?"
"Then I'll deal with it when it comes crawling back."
The light flickered, making her expression dance between charm and shadow. For a heartbeat, she looked like a stranger wearing the Diviner's face. Then she turned and kept walking. Talia followed, her armor creaking quietly with each step. The smell of dust and old fire hung between them. She tried to shake the unease clawing at her ribs, but it clung stubbornly — not fear, not quite distrust, but a new kind of distance.
The Diviner hummed under her breath as they walked, a tune that had no rhythm, no melody — just a thread of sound winding through the dark. It echoed softly, unsettlingly, as though the temple was humming back. For once, she had a cheerful skip in her steps. The Nyxir followed in silence behind them, his silver eyes unreadable. When Talia glanced back, he met her gaze once, then said quietly,
"Do not fear her change, Paladin. The temple took only what she feared most."
"And what was that?"
"Herself," he said simply.
The words lingered like smoke. Ahead, the Diviner laughed — not cruelly, but freely — as if the echo of that fear had already forgotten her name.
The passage widened into a circular chamber, its walls lined with reliefs half-buried in sand. A ring of broken stone pillars surrounded a shallow depression in the center — a basin filled with gray dust that glowed faintly, like embers refusing to die.
"What is this place?" Talia whispered.
"A test," the Nyxir murmured. "One the temple uses to know who walks its heart."
"A test?" The Diviner stepped forward, her staff tapping the floor lightly. "Let's see if it still remembers how."
The Nyxir's wings tightened. "Do not—"
But it was already too late. Her staff touched the edge of the basin. The glow flared, and the walls trembled with a low, resonant hum — like a hundred throats murmuring in unison. The carvings came alive with faint firelight, revealing scenes of war and devotion: figures kneeling before a great burning figure crowned with seven tongues of flame.
Ba'Ham.
The voices from the stone whispered together:
"The god of fire remembers the unworthy by what they burn. What will you give?"
A small pillar of flame erupted in the center of the basin.
Talia instinctively stepped in front of the Diviner. "Stay behind me."
The Diviner laughed softly, brushing her fingers against Talia's armored shoulder.
"You don't have to protect me from a riddle, darling."
"It's not a riddle. It's alive."
"So am I."
Talia glared at her, but the Diviner only smiled, turning her face toward the flickering fire.
"It's asking for an offering," she murmured. "Not a thing — a truth. A memory, maybe."
The Nyxir nodded once. "Each who passes must surrender what defines them. The temple measures worth by the weight of what you lose."
"Sounds familiar," the Diviner said wryly.
"Then perhaps you should not touch it again."
"Oh, but I want to see what it shows me this time." She crouched beside the basin, her voice soft, coaxing. "Last time, it took something I feared. Let's see what it offers in return."
"Diviner," Talia warned, "stop."
"Why? Because you're afraid of what it might do?"
"Because you're not."
That stopped her — not for long, but long enough for Talia to see the faintest tremor cross her features, the ghost of who she'd been before the temple unmade her fear. Then she smiled again, unbothered, reckless.
"You really liked me better when I was boring, didn't you?"
"I liked knowing who I was fighting beside."
The Nyxir's wings shifted, feathers whispering like paper.
"The riddle must be answered," he said quietly. "If you refuse, it will decide for you."
"What does that mean?"
"It will take what it wants."
A new voice echoed through the chamber then — smooth and quiet, but heavy with familiarity.
"You carry my gift," it said, "and yet you fear my flame."
Talia froze. The voice was her god's, Kaelor, or something close enough to make her bones hum. The basin's fire brightened, casting harsh light across her face.
"Kaelor?" she whispered.
"Prove you are not hollow. Feed the flame, or be forgotten."
The Diviner stood beside her now, suddenly serious. "It wants you to burn something of yourself."
"Like what?"
"A memory," the Nyxir said. "A truth that defines you."
Talia swallowed. Her gaze flicked between them — the priestess with her dangerous new calm, the winged creature who looked carved from night. Her chest tightened.
"If I give it another piece of me," she said, "what's left?"
"You'll still be you," the Diviner said softly. Then, with a grin that was too bright for this place, "Just slightly more mysterious."
Talia almost laughed — almost. But the flame hissed, rising higher, and the whispering voices began to chant in a low, rhythmic pulse. The temple was impatient. She took a breath, stepped toward the basin… and hesitated.
"Diviner," she said, "you seem awfully calm for someone who almost lost her soul."
The Diviner tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Maybe losing it was the best thing that ever happened to me."
The words landed like a stone dropped into water — small ripples spreading outward through the chamber. The Nyxir's eyes flared silver.
"Careful, Diviner. The temple hears pride as prayer."
"Good," she said lightly, stepping beside Talia. "Maybe it'll start listening."
The flames surged higher, reacting to her defiance. Carvings shifted. Stone faces turned. The test was no longer waiting. It was watching. And Talia realized, with a chill she couldn't name, that whatever had been taken from the Diviner — fear, caution, restraint — was also the thing that had kept them both safe.
The flame in the basin stretched higher, curling toward the ceiling like a serpent of light. The chamber trembled with a low hum, the carvings along the walls rippling as if half-awake and restless. Talia stood before it, unease tightening her chest. She could feel Ba'Ham's whisper—warm, eager, dangerous—the pull of magic, promise of power that every gifted human could feel. Every paladin was taught to master their magic but never trust. The voice that filled the chamber was not Ba'Ham's alone. It came deep and resonant, but layered—like two rivers meeting.
"Give what you guard most," it said. "Or be unmade by what you worship."
The Nyxir's wings shuddered open.
"Don't," he warned. "It's awake and hungry. It means to weigh your soul."
"Not just hers," the Diviner said quietly. "It's weighing all of us."
"Diviner—"
"Let it," she said, and before Talia could stop her, she stepped forward. She remembered something the Nyxir had said before. Knows you. Holy light is memory in its purest form. It will not let you go easily. He had been referring to Talia. She couldn't let the temple take her. Then she remembered the Wardens on the rooftop, usually clad in shadows. But she had seen them. They had been drawn to her. Her power. What if…?
Her fingers brushed the edge of the flame. The basin flared white. The air turned to molten glass. Heat rippled through the chamber, bending the carved figures along the walls until they seemed to writhe and breathe. The Nyxir hissed and threw up his wings, shielding his face.
"Stop!" Talia shouted, seizing the Diviner's wrist—but the fire did not burn her. It clung to her, crawling up her arm like liquid gold, whispering in a dozen voices not her own.
"The fearless one steps forward," the temple intoned. "Let her courage be weighed."
The Diviner's smile faltered. "Oh," she whispered. "That's what it feels like."
"What does?"
"To be seen back."
The light turned harsh, feverish. Symbols crawled across her skin—runes of Ba'Ham, old and terrible, carrying both devotion and curse. The flame thickened, tendrils of light reaching toward her heart.
"She's offering too much!" the Nyxir shouted over the roar. "It will take her mind!"
Talia lunged, gripping the Diviner by the shoulders. The fire's radiance burned against her armor, seeping through the seams.
"You're giving it everything!"
"It's not everything," the Diviner breathed, her voice trembling between joy and panic. "Just what's left of the fear I didn't have time to miss."
"You need that fear!"
"Do I?" Her voice cracked into a laugh that wasn't quite sane. "It's beautiful, Talia. I can feel it thinking through me."
"You'll lose yourself!"
"Better I lose me than to lose you."
"How do I stop it?" Talia cried.
"You can't—" The Nyxir said, eerily calm.
He never finished. A sound like a chord struck the air—clear, radiant, other. The white fire faltered, flickering as something vast pressed against it from beyond. The heat softened; the serpent of flame recoiled, hissing like a wounded thing. The runes on the Diviner's arms shattered into motes of silver light, not burned away, but replaced—with markings soft and luminescent, curling like vines instead of chains. The basin's hue shifted from gold to pale blue, the oppressive hum breaking into a single, calm note. The voice that spoke then was not Ba'Ham's. It was cool and sorrowful, threaded through with impossible gentleness.
"She is not yours to test."
The Nyxir stiffened, bowing his head low in recognition. The Diviner gasped. The fire unwound from her hand, fading into a shimmer of petals and ash. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and blossoms—a mercy foreign to this scorched place. The light dimmed. The temple fell silent, the carvings still once more.
The Diviner collapsed forward, and Talia caught her, easing her to the floor. Her skin glowed faintly, not with Ba'Ham's fire, but with something softer—moonlight trapped beneath her flesh.
"You insufferable idiot," Talia whispered hoarsely, brushing soot from her cheek. "You reckless, brilliant idiot."
The Diviner's breath shuddered. "You said… I needed fear. Maybe the gods disagreed."
"You almost burned yourself alive."
"Almost," the Diviner said faintly. "But someone else stood between."
"May'Jahan," the Nyxir murmured. "The Mother of Light intervened. You carry her mark now."
Talia looked up sharply. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, "that the goddess of life has chosen to guard what Ba'Ham would consume. The Diviner is her vessel, though she doesn't know it yet."
The Diviner exhaled slowly, her lips curving into a weak smile.
"A goddess playing favorites. That's new."
"You think this is funny?" Talia asked, half-angry, half-terrified.
"Not funny," the Diviner murmured, her eyelids fluttering. "Just… impossible. And yet I'm still here."
"You could have died."
"But you didn't. That's what's important."
The Nyxir's wings folded close.
"The temple knows her now," he said quietly. "But it will not touch her again. The life-giver's hand shields her flame. You, paladin, must guard the rest."
Talia held the Diviner close, watching the faint silver glow pulse in her veins.
Whatever had just happened, this was no longer Ba'Ham's trial. The Diviner had been claimed—not by fire, but by something that refused to let her burn.