CHAPTER 9: Temple of Reflections [Part 1 & 2]

[ Part 1 of 4 ]

It had been two days since Syra received the notebook—two days since the man cloaked in black and gold vanished like a ghost into the fog of time.

The moment kept replaying in her mind, over and over. The smell of ash. The chill in the air. The sound of her own breath caught in her throat. And him—his voice as calm as fate.

"This story isn't finished. But it's yours now."

She hadn't dared open the notebook again since that night. When she did, the pages moved on their own. Some words vanished as soon as she tried to read them. Others appeared only when she wasn't looking. One page bled. Literally. She touched it once, and a sharp sting sliced her fingertip.

She had never believed in curses before.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

They traveled west, far beyond the boundaries of what remained of the old empire—into lands where the sky itself had cracks. Clouds moved like bruises, and the sun refused to shine properly. It was the kind of place maps had stopped mentioning. A place untouched by the gods and unclaimed by hell.

Their destination: the Temple of Masks, a fallen sanctum once dedicated to knowledge and silence. Now, it was rumored to house relics of those who betrayed the celestial pacts.

"You're sure about this?" Riven asked, glancing sideways at her.

The half-demon's cloak flared in the wind, his shadow flickering unnaturally behind him.

"I'm not sure about anything anymore," Syra admitted.

That was the truth.

She had left the Academy behind. She had left her false identity, her name, even the memory of killing her own father. But the guilt had followed her like a second heartbeat.

They walked in silence for hours, until the jagged silhouette of the temple appeared on the horizon. It rose out of the cracked obsidian ground like a forgotten god's tooth. A single spire, leaning slightly, covered in symbols no one remembered how to read.

There were no doors. No obvious entrance.

But the temple seemed to breathe.

"There's no one here," Riven whispered. "No guards. No watchers."

"That's the trap," Syra said. "That's always the trap."

They stepped into the shadow of the temple, and the world changed instantly.

Inside the Temple

The moment they crossed the threshold, light vanished.

Not dimmed—vanished.

Syra reached out, only to feel her hand meet something soft and cold—mist? Flesh?

No. It was memory.

"Stay close," she said, her voice trembling.

"Right behind you," came Riven's voice—except it wasn't.

She turned. Riven wasn't there.

Neither was the corridor.

She stood now in a massive circular chamber filled with masks. Thousands of them. Hovering mid-air, arranged in spirals and rings. Each mask had a face. Each face had a name.

And one of them… was hers.

To Be Continued in Part 2...

CHAPTER 9: Temple of Reflections (Part 2 of 4)

The mask was unmistakable.

Porcelain-white. Lined with blood-red veins that pulsed faintly under the surface. The eyes were hollow, but Syra felt them staring into her. Through her.

Below the mask floated a silver plaque engraved with her full name:

Syra Kaelion

Daughter of the Gatekeeper.

Bearer of Blood. Traitor of Flame.

"No," she whispered. "That's not… that's not me."

But the mask trembled. A crack formed across its cheek. And a second later, it whispered back—no lips moved, but Syra heard the words inside her skull.

"You will be all these things. And worse."

Suddenly, all the other masks turned.

They faced her. Countless faces from across time. Some wore crowns. Some wore fangs. Others wept black tears, or burned in silent screams. They began to chant—not with voices, but with thoughts.

"Rewrite. Rewrite. Rewrite the traitor."

Syra stumbled backward—only to find herself standing before another mask. This one wore her father's face.

Ares Kaelion.

The immortal.

The man she had slain.

Syra reached out and touched the mask. It was warm.

A memory hit her like lightning.

FLASHBACK

She was six. Her father was teaching her how to hold a sword—not to fight, but to balance.

"Even gods fall," he said. "The sword teaches you not to worship power. It teaches you to wield it."

She had laughed, not understanding. He smiled.

"One day," he added, more serious, "you'll have to choose whether to cut fate… or let it cut you."

END FLASHBACK

She dropped the mask. It shattered.

The temple screamed.

Suddenly, Syra was no longer alone.

Riven was beside her again, panting, his eyes wide with fear.

"I saw them," he said. "All of them. My mother. My father. The monster I almost became."

"This place shows reflections," Syra realized aloud. "But not just the past. Possibilities."

"That means we're still being watched," Riven said.

"By who?"

A voice echoed from above.

"By me."

Author.

He stood atop a floating platform made of time itself—ripples in the air frozen mid-breath. His cloak rippled in the windless void. The golden gun on his hip glowed. His mask reflected no light, only endless shadow.

"You wanted answers, Syra. You came to a temple built on them."

"You gave me this!" she shouted, holding up the notebook.

"I gave you a chance," he corrected. "You're the one writing the story now."

Syra's hands trembled.

"Why me? Why any of this?"

Author paused, then pointed at a mask slowly forming behind her.

She turned.

It was blank.

"That one?" Author said. "That's your future. It hasn't been written yet. But you're running out of time to decide who writes it."

To Be Continued in Part 3...