-The desert, Temple of Bahk'Ehmet-
Dust hung in the air where the light had been, swirling in slow spirals that caught faint traces of color. The basin lay cracked and dark, its flame extinguished. Only the faint scent of rain and burned stone remained—a contradiction that made Talia's head swim. The Nyxir crouched beside the fallen Diviner, his wings half-spread like a mourning shroud.
"She shielded you," he said quietly. "The temple called for the light of the Paladin, the pure memory, not her. She stepped forward in your place."
Talia dropped to her knees beside them, trembling hands searching for a pulse. There—weak, but steady.
"Why would she do that?"
The Nyxir tilted his head, eyes reflecting what little light remained. "Because she guessed what it wanted, and what she could give instead. She gambled that her protector would see her through."
"May'Jahan," Talia breathed.
"Yes." His gaze lingered on the silver veins glowing faintly beneath her skin. "The Mother's touch has not left her. You were right to trust that something watched her. It seems she trusted it more than her own life."
Talia's throat closed. The Diviner's face was still, peaceful in a way that looked almost wrong.
"She thought it wanted me," she whispered. "She thought it would stop if it had her instead."
The Nyxir nodded once. "A desperate calculation. But not unwise."
"She could've told me—"
"She did," he interrupted gently. "In every word she didn't say."
Talia stared at her hands, still warm from where she'd caught the Diviner's body.
"I thought I could protect her. I should've—"
"You were never meant to protect her from the gods," the Nyxir said. "Only to walk beside her when they reached for her."
The silence that followed was heavy and unkind. Deep down Talia realised the truth. The Diviner had shielded her because she did care deeply about her.
"We can't leave this place standing," Talia said finally. "If it wakes again—if anyone else wanders in—"
"It will devour them," the Nyxir finished. "Yes. The memory of fire never dies; it only waits to be fed."
Talia rose to her feet, anger burning low and controlled in her chest.
"Then we starve it. Collapse the vault. Seal it under the dunes."
"You think that will destroy it?"
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But it'll keep others safe."
The Nyxir's gaze followed the cracked carvings along the wall, the once-living stone now split and weeping fine trails of glowing dust.
"It feeds on memory," he said slowly. "If we could make it forget—"
"Forget?"
"Erase its connection to the divine. Scatter its story so that no prayer, no relic, no curious fool can wake it again."
"How?"
"Through sacrifice," the Nyxir murmured. "Through the surrender of names." He glanced down at the Diviner, then at Talia. "She's already given hers once. You could give yours too."
Talia froze. "You mean—erase us from it?"
"And from it, erase itself. If it cannot remember who touched it, it cannot call for more."
Talia looked down at the Diviner again—at the faint, steady shimmer beneath her skin. Her chest tightened with a painful, familiar mix of fury and love.
"If I do that," she said hoarsely, "will it save her?"
"It might," the Nyxir said. "Or it might leave her untethered—an echo with no past. But it would end the temple's hunger."
Talia bowed her head. "She'd say it's worth it."
"Would you?"
Talia didn't answer. She brushed her fingers across the Diviner's forehead, feeling the pulse of divine warmth still fighting beneath her skin.
"We'll find another way," she said finally. "We'll bury it. Trap it. Whatever it takes to keep it from touching her again."
The Nyxir tilted his head, the faintest smile flickering across his sharp features. "You're stubborn for a human."
"I learned from someone worse," Talia said softly.
The Nyxir's gaze softened. "Then perhaps there is hope."
Outside, the wind began to rise, carrying sand through the cracks of the temple. The air grew heavy, the floor beneath them trembling as if the ancient ruin itself listened—and resented their resolve.
"It knows what we plan," the Nyxir whispered. "It's sinking."
"Then we move," Talia said, sliding her arm beneath the Diviner's shoulders. "Now."
The Nyxir spread his wings, an imposing sight as they were each longer than he was.
"Go. I'll try to keep the way open."
Talia hesitated only long enough to glance back at the basin—at the faint shimmer of blue where May'Jahan's presence had lingered.
"Please," she whispered, though she didn't know to whom, "don't let her sacrifice be for nothing."
Then the sand roared downward, and the last light of the temple vanished beneath it. The ground lurched beneath them, a deep, shuddering groan that rippled through the floor and up their bones. Dust fell like rain from the ceiling. The carvings on the walls flared one last time—fiery veins of orange and red—before flickering into darkness.
"It's going," the Nyxir hissed. His talons scraped the stone as he steadied himself. "The temple is sinking into the sand."
Talia tightened her grip on the Diviner's arm, half lifting her as she stumbled.
"Then we don't stay to watch."
But the floor gave way beneath them before they could move—cracks racing like lightning, sand pouring in through the fractures, hungry and endless. The Diviner gasped, throwing out her hand on instinct. The air hummed, the fine hairs on Talia's arms rising as the scent of ozone and dust filled the room.
The collapse stopped. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
The sand churned and froze mid-flow, suspended in a shimmering lattice of gold and white light. The ground beneath them steadied. The Diviner stood rigid, her face pale, her hair lifting slightly in the unseen currents of power.
"You're holding it," Talia realized. "You're keeping the whole thing up."
"Trying to," the Diviner said through clenched teeth. "I can feel it tearing itself apart. The memory doesn't want to be forgotten."
"Then let it fall!"
"Not yet." She staggered forward, one arm extended, the other gripping her staff. "If it sinks now, it'll drag the valley down with it. The sands will bury the ruins, the village, everything."
The strain in her voice cut through Talia like a blade. The Diviner's hands trembled violently, arcs of earthen magic crackling along her arms—glowing veins of dull, fractured gold. It wasn't just earth she was holding. It was time, resisting the temple's unraveling.
"You're not strong enough for this!" Talia shouted.
"You've said that before," the Diviner gasped, trying to smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "And I proved you wrong then too."
The sand began to move again, slower now but still relentless. The temple's foundations moaned in protest. Every second she held it was a second closer to collapse.
"Diviner—"
"Go!" she snapped, voice cracking with the effort.
Talia hesitated, caught between duty and instinct, between the pull of May'Jahan and the pulse of something older in her chest. Until she got a look on the small woman trying to hold the weight of an entire temple. Underneath the headstrong attitude she saw a woman in tatters and covered in scrapes. Exhausted and spent, but still choosing to save others. She wanted to rush to her side, but then the Nyxir's voice cut through the roar.
"She's right. It won't hold. You must get her out of here before it all comes down."
Talia turned to him—and froze. The Nyxir wasn't following. His claws dug into the stone, wings spread wide as he faced the deepening collapse.
"You're staying?" she asked.
"Someone must watch," he said simply. "The temple still breathes. It will try to return. I can hold it here—at least long enough for the sands to claim it."
"You'll die."
"Perhaps. But I am not without purpose." He turned his head, one bright, reflective eye meeting hers. "If you would honor me, Paladin, then help another."
"Another?"
"One of my kin. A female, trapped in the ruins of the old village. I cannot recall her name—its echo is lost to me." His voice softened, strangely vulnerable. "If you find her, give her one. Names keep us from the dark."
The Diviner, still straining to hold the temple's structure together, managed a breathless chuckle. "We'll save Foxglove."
The Nyxir's gaze flicked to her. "Foxglove?"
"Foxglove," the Diviner said, her voice thin but clear. "Beautiful. Poisonous. Hard to forget."
The Nyxir blinked once, then bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"Foxglove," he repeated softly, as though the word itself gave him strength.
The temple roared then—a sound like the earth itself screaming. The sand walls began to buckle.
"Go!" the Nyxir shouted, spreading his wings to brace against the gale. "Before it swallows you both!"
Talia slung the Diviner's arm over her shoulders, half-dragging, half-guiding her through the collapsing corridor. Every step was a battle—the sand shifting beneath them, the air thick with choking dust and magic gone feral. The light from Talia's gauntlet flickered madly, struggling to keep its shape as the temple's power unraveled around them. Behind them, the Nyxir's roar echoed through the dark.
"Remember her name!"
And then, the ceiling gave way.
The last thing Talia saw before the sand consumed the light was the Diviner's hand, outstretched toward the crumbling earth, holding it back one final heartbeat longer than anyone should've been able to.
Long enough for them to escape. Long enough to live.
The night was mercifully quiet. The wind that had howled through the desert hours earlier had softened to a whisper, tracing the dunes with silver light. The temple—once a monolith half-buried beneath the sands—was gone, swallowed whole by the earth that had long grown tired of its hunger. Two figures lay sprawled in the cool sand beside a broken archway that jutted from the ground like the rib of some ancient beast. The air was still, save for the ragged sound of breathing. Talia stirred first. Her armor was scorched in places, sand ground into the seams. Every joint ached as if she'd been crushed, reassembled, and left to dry under the sun. She blinked up at the stars—bright and distant, indifferent to the chaos below—and for a moment couldn't tell if she was alive or still trapped in the temple's last dream. Beside her, the Diviner was motionless. Panic snapped through the haze. Talia scrambled to her side, hands shaking as she pressed fingers to the woman's throat.
A pulse. Slow. Steady.
Relief hit her so hard it left her dizzy.
"Still reckless," she murmured, brushing dust from the Diviner's cheek. "Still impossible."
The Diviner didn't stir. The faintest glow pulsed beneath her skin—May'Jahan's lingering mark—and Talia found herself wondering whether the goddess still watched, or if that divine mercy had already passed on. Exhaustion swallowed her then, dragging her under before she could resist. She fell sideways into the sand, head turned toward the Diviner, and darkness claimed her again.
She dreamed of marble halls and candlelight. The air was perfumed with jasmine and ink, the faint rustle of silk echoing through a chamber too pristine to feel lived in. Talia knew instantly this wasn't her memory. The air was wrong—the weight of expectation was thicker than armor. A young girl stood before a gilded mirror. She couldn't have been more than eight years old, her hair dark and neatly braided, her eyes—familiar blind eyes—wide and frightened. She held a silver diadem in her hands as if it were a weapon she didn't yet know how to wield. Behind her, a woman's voice spoke—sharp, deliberate, perfect in tone.
"Stand straighter, Calenelda. A ruler must never bow, even to her own doubt."
The girl flinched. "Yes, Mother."
"And remember what we've told you. You may listen, you may smile, but you will never trust. The moment you do, they will take everything from you. Your name, your bloodline, your throne. Happiness is a distraction. Love is a weakness. Power is all that endures."
The girl—The Diviner, Talia realized—nodded, though tears welled at the edges of her eyes. She turned slightly, as if searching for someone who might contradict the words, someone who might tell her it wasn't true. But the hall was empty. She was utterly alone.
"Do you understand?" the woman asked.
Calenelda hesitated. "Yes, Mother."
"Good. Now, smile."
The girl lifted her chin, forcing the practiced, graceful expression of a noble trained to perform serenity. Talia felt her heart twist in her chest. She recognized that look. It was the same calm mask the Diviner wore whenever she lied about how much she cared. The dream flickered. The reflection in the mirror shifted—older now, sharper, the same woman Talia knew—but there was something fractured in her eyes.
"If they see me," the Diviner whispered to her reflection, "they'll break me."
The glass cracked.