Remembering

Elara's body collapsed at the foot of the now-silent statues, the amulet clutched tightly in her hand. The divine light around her dimmed, and once again, the palace receded into the shadows. Yet, something had changed within her, a spark kindling deep in her soul. The time for dreams had passed—her journey was just beginning.

Elara's eyes fluttered open to the dim light filtering through the ancient temple's arched windows. The air was cool, and the faint scent of incense lingered around her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, as the details of the divine palace and the goddess's radiant form faded from her mind. Pushing herself up from the cold stone floor, she instinctively reached for her hand, expecting to find the amulet she had clutched so tightly.

But it was gone.

She stared at her empty palm, her brow furrowed in confusion. Was it all just a dream? The vivid encounter, the goddess, the amulet—how could it feel so real yet slip away like mist? A quiet wave of embarrassment washed over her as she realized she had fallen asleep inside the temple. Her gaze flicked to the elders, standing in solemn silence by the altar. She hastily stood and brushed off her dress, her heart racing as she approached them.

"I'm so sorry," Elara murmured, her cheeks flushing as she bowed her head in respect. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." She glanced up nervously, hoping they would not be upset.

The elders, their faces calm but unreadable, simply nodded in acknowledgment, exchanging glances that Elara could not quite interpret. They spoke no words of reprimand, only offering quiet blessings as she paid her respects before excusing herself. Relieved yet still rattled, Elara quickly made her way to the entrance, eager to leave the strange atmosphere behind and return to the safety of Grams' house.

As she stepped outside, the warm sunlight kissed her face, but something stopped her in her tracks. Out of the corner of her eye, the carvings on the temple wall caught her attention. The ancient battle scenes she had touched earlier, the ones that felt so distant—now they seemed to call to her again. Slowly, as if compelled by a force she could not understand, Elara turned toward them.

The intricate figures etched into the stone seemed alive. Warriors, beasts, and mythical creatures twisted in frozen combat, their movements captured in agonizing detail. She traced the patterns with her eyes, feeling a strange sense of recognition. Her breath caught in her throat as her vision began to blur, and suddenly the temple courtyard dissolved around her.

She was back on the battlefield.

The chaos and horror of war exploded into her senses—the clashing of swords, the roars of monstrous beasts, the sky darkened by thick smoke. Elara stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, watching in horror as both human and creature alike fought with savage desperation. Massive dragons soared overhead, their scaled bodies gleaming as they unleashed torrents of fire on the ground below. Winged creatures with talons sharper than steel dove into the fray, their screeches tearing through the air. Warriors on horseback, their armor dented and bloodied, charged through the carnage, slashing at enemies with weapons glowing with ancient magic.

Elara's heart pounded as she took it all in, the raw, unrelenting violence freezing her in place. She wanted to scream, to run, but her body remained paralyzed by the sheer weight of the destruction unfolding before her.

And then, an odd sensation tugged at her. She felt an overwhelming urge to turn around. Fighting against the terror gripping her, she slowly twisted her body to look over her shoulder.

In the far distance, through the thick haze of smoke, she saw them—hooded figures standing in formation, chanting in low, rhythmic voices that seemed to vibrate in the very air. The sound was almost hypnotic, and Elara strained to make sense of it. Their faces were hidden beneath dark hoods, but one of them, standing at the center, slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto hers.

A cold chill raced down Elara's spine. The figure's gaze pierced her like a dagger, and at that exact moment, her hand began to burn.

She gasped in pain, clutching her palm, her heart racing. The heat was unbearable, and she felt as if her skin were on fire. But when she glanced down, there was no flame—only a faint, glowing imprint. It was the outline of the amulet. Her breath quickened as the burning sensation grew stronger, searing into her skin.

Then, with a violent jolt, she was yanked back into the present.

The battlefield, the chanting figures, the burning hand—all of it vanished in an instant. She was standing once again outside the temple, the sun shining down as if nothing had happened. But her hand still throbbed, the phantom heat lingering where the amulet had been.

Panting, Elara looked around, her mind spinning. Had it all been a dream? A vision? Or was there something far more real at play? The mystery loomed over her like a shadow, and as she gazed back at the carvings on the wall, the weight of what she had seen bore down on her.

Whatever was happening, she knew one thing for certain: she could not go back to the way things were. Something had awakened inside her, and there was no turning back.

Elara began the long walk back to Grams' house, her steps heavy, as if the weight of the battlefield clung to her. The sun's warmth should have been comforting, but her mind was too consumed by the lingering flashes of the scene she had just witnessed. The clashing of weapons, the thunderous roars of dragons, and the scent of blood and ash haunted her senses, swirling around in her head like fragments of a half-remembered nightmare. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the images refused to fade.

"Was any of it real?" she wondered, her thoughts spiraling. "Or was it just a dream?"

But it did not feel like a dream. She could still feel the phantom heat from where the amulet had burned into her palm. Instinctively, she rubbed her hand, but there was nothing there now. Just the faint memory of that searing pain. The battlefield, the terror—it had all felt so vivid, so tangible. Her heart raced as she tried to make sense of it. Was the temple playing tricks on her? Or had she somehow glimpsed a piece of history, a truth buried beneath the stone?

As she trudged along the familiar dirt path leading out of the village, Elara's mind kept returning to the hooded figure. His gaze—it had been so direct, so knowing. The way his eyes had locked onto hers from across the battlefield, it was as if he had seen straight into her soul. She shuddered, remembering the cold chill that had run through her when their eyes met. How did he know she was there? She was nothing more than a spectator, caught in some strange vision of the past. And yet, the figure had acknowledged her presence as though she was part of the chaos.

"Why me?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. The hooded figure's presence gnawed at her thoughts. He had not just seen her—he had singled her out. But why? Was she somehow connected to that ancient battle? And what did it mean that her hand had burned at the same moment their eyes met?

Her pace slowed as these questions piled up, threatening to overwhelm her. The distant hum of the village's normal life seemed so far away now, out of reach as her mind wandered through the fog of the battlefield once again. She kept seeing flashes of the hooded figures, their eerie chanting in the distance, their mysterious ritual feeding into the chaos of war. Who were they? And why, in that moment, had she felt such an urgent need to turn and look at them?

Her hand throbbed again, as if reminding her of the connection she could not yet understand. She stared down at it, half-expecting the amulet's mark to reappear, but her skin was bare. Still, the questions persisted. What power did the amulet hold? What role did the goddess Luna play in all of this?

Each step seemed to carry her further into a maze of confusion. What started as a simple day of offering respect to the old gods now felt like the beginning of something far greater—a mystery that had chosen her for reasons she could not yet grasp.

And that hooded figure… the one who seemed to know she was there. Who was he?

Elara finally reached Grams' house, the familiar sight of the small, cozy hut offering her a momentary sense of relief. The scent of herbs and baked bread drifted from the kitchen, warm and comforting as always, yet today, it felt distant. Her mind was still caught between the flashes of the battlefield and the questions that gnawed at her. She rubbed her hand absently, trying to shake off the unease, but the throbbing sensation would not fade.

Grams was sitting by the fire, her old hands busy weaving a basket of reeds, but her gaze lifted the moment Elara walked through the door. There was something in her eyes—something almost expectant, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

"You're back," Grams said softly, her voice carrying that same hint of something unspoken, something deeper than her words suggested. She set her basket aside and slowly stood up, brushing her hands on her apron. "Did everything go well at the temple?"

Elara hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. There was something off in Gram's tone—too casual, as if she was trying to mask her concern. The way her eyes flicked toward Elara's hand, just for a second, did not escape her notice.

"Yes," Elara answered, forcing a smile. "I paid my respects, like you taught me."

Grams nodded, but her gaze lingered on Elara longer than usual, studying her with a quiet intensity. "You look a little pale, my dear. Are you feeling all right?"

"I… I just…" Elara's voice faltered as she tried to find the right words. Should she tell Grams about what she saw? About the battle, the hooded figure, the strange sense that she was part of something much bigger. She wanted to, but something inside her stopped her short. There was a weight in the air, a shared tension between them that made her afraid to speak the truth.

"I'm fine," she lied, sitting down across from Grams. "Just tired, I guess."

Grams smiled faintly, but it did not reach her eyes. She poured some tea, her movements deliberate and slow, as if stalling. There was an unspoken dance between them now—both tiptoeing around the truth, too afraid to be the first to break the silence.

"I suppose that's natural," Grams said after a long pause. "The temple can be… overwhelming sometimes." She placed a cup of tea in front of Elara, her hands trembling just slightly as she did so.

Elara wrapped her hands around the warm cup, grateful for the distraction. "Grams, have you ever…" She trailed off, unsure of how to continue. She bit her lip, trying to decide how much to reveal. "Have you ever felt like… like the temple holds more than just memories? Like it is… alive?"

Gram's face did not change, but Elara saw the brief flicker of fear in her eyes before she looked away. "We offer our respect to the old gods," she said carefully, her voice too measured, too controlled. "That's all we've ever done. And that's all we need to do."

"But Grams, when I was there, I… I saw things." Elara's voice wavered. She could not hold back any longer. "I saw a battle. A real one. It felt like I was there, watching it happen, and—there were these hooded figures, and one of them… he looked right at me."

Grams froze, her hands stilling over her own cup. The tension between them thickened, suffocating the air in the small room. She did not speak for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together as if battling with herself.

"Elara," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "some things are better left unseen. Unspoken." She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening with something close to sorrow. "There's a reason we give offerings. A reason why we don't ask questions."

Elara felt a chill creep up her spine. "But why?" she pressed, her heart pounding now. "Why don't we ask? Why don't we talk about it?"

Grams sighed, the weight of years settling into her frail frame. "Because, child, the truth can be dangerous. Once it is known, it cannot be forgotten. And not all truths lead to peace." She turned away, her hands wringing the edge of her apron nervously. "Sometimes, it's better to live in the safety of what we think we know."

Elara stared at her, her mind racing. Grams knew something. She was sure of it now. But even as the silence stretched between them, Elara could not find the courage to push further. Not yet.

 "I just… I feel like I am missing something," Elara murmured, looking down at her hands, still expecting to see a mark or the amulet. "Something important."

Grams watched her quietly for a moment before placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are missing something, my dear. But the question is, are you ready to find it?" Her voice was heavy with meaning, the words a veiled warning.

Elara looked up, meeting Grams' gaze. The fear, the tension—it was mutual. Both of them were afraid of what lay beneath the surface. But now, there was no turning back.

"I don't know," Elara whispered. "But I think… I think I have to try."

Grams nodded slowly, her grip tightening on Elara's shoulder. "Then be careful, child. Once you start down this path, there may be no turning back."

And with that, the conversation ended, but the weight of unspoken truths hung heavily between them. Both, too afraid to reveal what they truly knew.