Echo of Forgotten Flames

The Wind That Whispers Names

A storm brewed over the mountains, its thunder a hymn of reckoning.

The wind carried whispers—voices of the fallen, names of the forgotten.

Tara's name was among them.

Shree Yan stood atop the palace balcony, his red eyes reflecting the tempest's wrath.

"The past is a river, always flowing, always returning," he murmured.

"Yet I stand unmoved, an immortal rock against its current."

Beneath him, the capital city lay bathed in pale moonlight. Its people bowed to his reign, some in devotion, some in fear. All in submission.

But the air was different tonight. A disturbance. A shadow reborn.

A Phoenix in the Dark

Far beyond the city walls, in the ruins where she had fallen, Tara walked again.

Each step left embers in the dust, the ground smoldering beneath her touch.

She had been broken. Burned. Buried.

But death had not claimed her. It had remade her.

The voices of the abyss whispered in her ears: Kill the King. Burn the Throne. Unleash the Night.

She closed her eyes and smiled.

Shree Yan, can you hear it?

The sound of the past, clawing its way back to you?

A single spark flickered in her palm, dancing like a restless ghost.

With a whisper, she released it.

The night caught fire.