Whispers in the Flame

The sounds of clashing charms grew louder, like the chime of metal against stone, as footsteps approached rapidly. A figure emerged from the shadows, her robe billowing with each hurried step. Her entrance caused a ripple of disturbance among the gathered Lazæns, their voices faltering for a moment as the rhythmic chanting was interrupted. Eyes flickered towards the newcomer, a few faces twisted in annoyance.

Xymóra paid them no heed. The flickers of annoyance on their faces barely registered as her dark brown eyes swept across the gathering, momentarily locking with Elder Ylath's piercing gaze. She said nothing. Her presence alone seemed to carry weight, like the stillness before a storm. Without a word, she knelt on the earth, her fingers brushing the cool, damp soil as she removed her hood, revealing the intricate black paintings on her sun-kissed skin.

Her black robe, adorned with the skulls of some beast, its teeth hanging like whispers of death, swept around her. The feather-like pins in her hair seemed almost alive. All of it served as a testament to her origins, to her place in the Væsh Laza.

It was evident that she did not believe in these prayers nor the revival of Orūzh. She was merely obeying the elder, and so she remained silent for now, sitting among them with her thoughts veiled in darkness.

Occasionally, Xymóra shifted on the ground, her body restless as the voices of the assembled Lazæns rose and fell in unison, their chanting washing over her like a dull wave. The flames crackled in the centre of the cave, its glow flickering in the heavy air, but she hardly noticed. To her, the ritual was a well-worn performance, one she had long stopped caring for.

Her eyes wandered over the gathered group, the muted rhythm of their prayers serving little to hold her attention. Her gaze, as it often did when her mind grew tired, settled on the fire. She watched the flames dance and writhe with hues of orange and red. The heat from it didn't reach her; the fire was a mere illusion, a trick of the mind.

Her thoughts wandered, and her gaze sharpened as the flames seemed to draw her in. She blinked, her pulse quickening as the flickering light began to consume her. Suddenly, the fire was not just a fire. It became something more. Something far darker, far more real. She saw the village again, that fateful night, lost to the flames. The crackle of burning homes, the cries of her people, the screams of the fallen.

Her mother's face flickered in the blaze. Her father's voice echoed through the smoke, calling to her. For a moment, she could almost taste the ash in the air, feel the weight of an unrecognised past pressing down on her.

Xymóra snapped herself out of it, shaking her head hard. Her fingers gripped the hem of her black robe as she grounded herself. The flames continued to roar in the centre of the cave, but she remained distracted.

Then, there it was again. A whisper. Faint, almost imperceptible at first, like the rustling of leaves in a breeze. Yet, it was there, unmistakable. She turned sharply, scanning the shadows beyond the fire, expecting to see something. Anything. However, the only movement was the sway of the trees in the dark, the wind whispering through the branches outside.

Nothing.

Her eyes returned to the circle, and she caught the glare of another Laezan, a woman seated nearby, her lips curling in annoyance at the disruption. Xymóra met the woman's gaze with cold indifference.

"What?" she murmured under her breath.

The woman's eyes flicked to the child in her arms, a subtle gesture of reproach, before she turned her attention back to the prayer. The woman resumed chanting, her voice blending with the others, but Xymóra was already turning away.

The whisper lingered. She forced herself to focus on the fire again, but now the flames seemed even more intense, the light from the blaze pulsing with an unnatural rhythm. She stared until a flicker caught her eye. Something in the distance, just beyond the bridge that led to the heart of the sacred grove. A pale light, faint but steadily shining through the dark.

It could not be real.

She blinked, the light gone in the next breath, leaving only the shadows and the flickering fire.

"Hmm," Xymóra muttered under her breath, her brow furrowing in quiet confusion. She leaned back, her hands resting on the ground, her gaze once again fixed on the fire. Again, the whispers were there still, insistent, curling at the edges of her mind.

She glanced back at the bridge, but the light was nowhere to be found. The fire raged on, its intensity growing, its crackling becoming a chant of its own, but the whispers were louder now, impossible to ignore.

Xymóra tightened her jaw, deciding to dismiss it. Her mind had always been prone to such digressions. Yet the unease lingered, pulling at her, as if something beyond the flames, beyond the fire, was calling to her.

She had been here before. She knew this. The light. The fire. The whispers. Yet this time, it felt different.

She glanced again at the darkened bridge, and again, the light was gone, leaving only the fire's roar to drown out the silence of the night.