“I don’t think we were meant to see this,” came a voice behind me.
I flinched and turned to find Erindor in the doorway.
He didn’t enter fully. Merley stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath the torchlight.
“I thought you left,” I said softly.
“I waited for you.”
Of course, he had.
He stepped closer, slowly and quietly. His gaze flicked to the mural. “What do you think it means?”
I shook my head. “The scrolls always said Vireya was one of the oldest gods. Fire was her domain, yes, but also a source of transformation, ambition, love, and loss. Once, people revered her as a gentle goddess. Until she demanded to be worshiped as the only one.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“What about the others?”
“They fled. Or fell. Or were forgotten.”
“And this shrine?”
“Could have been one of her last,” I whispered. “Before she was driven underground.”
His gaze dropped to the mark on my arm. “It glowed back there. In front of the statue.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “What does that mean, Wyn?”
“I don’t know.” I looked back at the mural, heart fluttering. “But I don’t think it’s random.”
The silence settled, oppressive as the air grew dense once more, radiating a heavy warmth that seeped from the depths.
He looked at me then, truly gazed. “You remind me of something.”
I blinked. “What?”
“An old story.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Of a woman born with fire in her blood, not to destroy, but to awaken the divine. They called her the quiet flame.”
He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even afraid.
The torchlight danced in his eyes as he added, “They said she’d walk among ruins, and the gods would stir in their sleep. That her flame wouldn’t burn until she believed it wouldn’t consume her.”
I looked down at my hands, trembling slightly, but still mine.
No fire. Not yet.
But the warmth was there.
By the time we stepped out of the alcove, the others had already moved ahead, their shapes fading into the misty glow of the tunnel’s next bend. The walls here still radiated warmth, but not like fire, more like a gentle breath.
Erindor said nothing as we walked. I could still feel his gaze flick toward me now and then.
We caught up to the group where the corridor narrowed into a sloped descent, the stone beneath our boots darker, ash-veined, and cracked in spirals. Soot streaked the walls, fresh enough to smear when brushed.
“I don’t like this,” Gideon muttered. “Shrines don’t stay warm centuries after being abandoned. That thing is still breathing.”
“Some gods sleep in stone,” Jasira said quietly. “Some don’t.”
