-The desert, the ridge-
Sleep had taken them after the brutal climb and following events. Both of them exhausted. Talia stirred first, the stiff ache of her body pulling her awake. The memory of the night before rushed back unbidden—the heat of the Diviner's hand, the brush of lips, the way her chest had ached with something too dangerous to name. Her eyes flicked across the firepit. The Diviner was still there, seated upright as though she hadn't slept at all, her sightless face angled toward the rising sun. For a moment, Talia let herself watch. The way the wind teased at her hair, the way a lopsided smile tugged at her lips.
Then the Diviner spoke, quiet, certain.
"You're staring again, Wildfire."
Heat snapped up Talia's neck. She scrambled for armor, for deflection.
"No, I'm not. Don't flatter yourself."
The Diviner tilted her head, the ghost of amusement dancing in her expression. But she didn't press—didn't acknowledge the kiss, didn't corner her. Just let the silence stretch, heavy with everything unspoken. Or that was how she would have acted before her new reckless state. Instead, every ounce of discomfort read on her features.
"You can't pretend nothing ha-"
She was cut short when a scout cried out in relief, waving them toward the regrouped soldiers. Talia straightened her armor before stepping into sight.
"Not now." she said sternly.
When addressing the soldiers, her voice was steady, brisk—almost too sharp as she reported the path they'd carved through the chaos. She never once looked at the Diviner while speaking. But the others noticed the exhaustion etched into both their faces, the way grit still clung to their clothes, the faint tremor of weariness in Talia's hands. Questions were asked—how had they survived when others hadn't?—but Talia brushed them aside with clipped efficiency. The Diviner, for her part, said little. But now that she was no longer afraid of being seen, the soldiers could see a very different side of her. Not anger or regret. She stood just behind Talia, fragile and hurt, her silence sharp as glass. The unspoken lingered between them, but here, in front of comrades and councilors, both retreated behind armor of different kinds. And yet—when their paths briefly crossed, a shoulder brushing, or when the Diviner tilted her head as if "seeing" her without looking, Talia's heart lurched. She hated herself for it.
The Diviner suddenly snapped up, her blind eyes fixed on the horizon. The action had Talia worried for a moment because it was so sudden. When she followed her gaze she saw that the day was slowly progressing across the dunes, bleeding pale light into the fading stars. The desert had quieted after the storm of collapsing stone, the air still thick with the scent of dust and burnt magic. But she knew that couldn't be what the Diviner was looking at.
Then she saw it. Standing on one of the taller dunes in the distance.
Stonefang. Just where the ridge met the valley—a hulking silhouette of gray fur and amber eyes. He had waited through the night, unmoving, the wind combing through his mane like a prayer that refused to die. When he saw them—Talia leaning on her sword, the Diviner limping towards him—he rose at once. Talia didn't say anything as the Diviner put some distance between her and what was left of the patrol. She told the patrol to stay and quietly followed the Diviner. Protecting her was more important than her walls right now.
"Stonefang," the Diviner breathed, her voice breaking into a laugh halfway through. "You stubborn, beautiful beast—you actually waited."
The wolf bounded forward but stopped short of her, paws digging into the sand. His head lowered, eyes fixed on her face. His tail didn't wag. His ears twitched once, uncertain. Talia stepped back, sensing the air between them shift—something tense and wordless passing in that space. The Diviner extended her hand, smiling with that same irreverent ease she'd worn since the temple.
"What's wrong? Don't tell me you've gone soft on me."
Stonefang didn't move. His lips curled just slightly—not in threat, but confusion. His nose flared as he took in her scent. He huffed once, sharp and low, and circled her.
"He doesn't recognize you," Talia murmured.
"Nonsense." The Diviner kept her tone light, but her smile wavered. "He's just sulking because I took too long."
The ease with which the Diviner had switched from her strained reserved to being this reckless cheerful again confused Talia greatly. Though deep down she already knew she was hiding behind a mask when they were with company, when Talia pretended nothing had happened.
The wolf stopped behind the Diviner, close enough that she could feel his breath against her back. His fur brushed her cloak as he leaned forward and pressed his muzzle against her shoulder.
The Diviner froze.
Slowly, Stonefang exhaled—a deep, guttural sigh that trembled through his frame. Then, with deliberate slowness, he bumped his head against her hand, as if to say you're changed, but you're still mine.
The Diviner's expression softened, the reckless spark in her eyes dimming just a little. She knelt beside him, fingers threading through the coarse fur at his neck.
"I know," she whispered. "Something's missing. I can feel it too."
Stonefang let out a low, plaintive sound and licked the back of her hand.
"I think," Talia said quietly, "he's worried you'll burn yourself out."
The Diviner laughed weakly, rubbing her thumb along Stonefang's jawline.
"He's not wrong. Fear kept me cautious, and now… well."
"Now you're dangerous," Talia said. "Even to yourself."
"Then he'll have to be my leash." The Diviner rested her forehead against Stonefang's. "Won't you, old friend?"
The wolf's ears twitched forward. He huffed again—soft, reluctant—and nuzzled her, as if accepting the role with the patience of one who already knew he would have no choice.
The Diviner's voice dropped to a murmur, almost tender. "See? Even without fear, he still trusts me. Maybe that's enough for now."
"Or maybe," Talia said, watching them, "he's just waiting for you to remember why you needed it."
The Diviner smiled faintly, stroking Stonefang's mane. "Then I suppose I'll just have to keep him close until I do."
Stonefang gave a low, content rumble—the sound of something ancient and loyal reclaiming its place beside her. He lowered himself to the sand, letting her rest her weight against him.
The Diviner seemed to relax a little, the tension easing from her shoulders now that Stonefang stood beside her again — his presence like an anchor in the drifting sands.
Still, something gnawed at the back of her mind.
"What do we do now, Talia?" she asked quietly.
Talia blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"The soldiers," the Diviner said, glancing toward the weary line of armored figures in the distance. "They look to you to lead them. You have to guide them home. But we promised the Nyxir we'd save Foxglove. Our word is binding."
Talia hesitated. The Diviner was right — but there was more in her tone than strategy. Something unspoken. Something that sounded suspiciously like the aftermath of a kiss that neither had found the courage to name.
The soldiers were drawing closer, speaking in low voices, their eyes flicking between the two women. They were beginning to piece things together — the looks, the closeness, the strange, fragile tenderness that had taken root between their leaders. Then Stonefang shot up, a growl tearing from his throat. His ears flattened, teeth bared. A second later, a jet of sand burst from the ground, slicing through the air where Talia had just stood. She stumbled back, hand flying to her sword.
"What in the—"
Before she could finish, the soldiers reacted on instinct. Shields came up, swords flashed. They surged forward in formation, trained to neutralize threats before questions.
The Diviner moved faster.
She drew a sharp breath, her foot tracing a sweeping arc over the sand. A low hum trembled through the air before erupting outward — a shockwave of dust and grit that sent every soldier sprawling. The desert stilled.
"No!" she shouted once, her voice cracking the silence. "No one touches Stonefang!"
Her chest heaved. For a moment, she looked like the storm itself. Then, slowly, she turned back to her wolf, pressing a trembling hand against his massive head. His muscles quivered beneath her touch, lips still curled back in warning. But she didn't flinch.
"Calenelda—" Talia began, taking a cautious step forward.
The Diviner flinched at the name, but didn't look up.
"Just go," she said softly. "Lead them home."
Talia froze, something sharp twisting in her chest.
The Diviner's next words were barely audible.
"Just go, if you don't want me."
Then she turned away, climbing onto Stonefang's back. Neither looked back as they disappeared into the dunes, leaving behind the scattered, bewildered soldiers — and Talia standing amid the settling dust.
They traveled through the day, sun cutting across the endless horizon. The Diviner's magic had yet to recover; her body ached with every movement, her thoughts coming slower than usual. Stonefang bore her weight without complaint, though his gait was slower now, his breaths heavy.
"Everything looks fuzzy," she murmured, squinting into the heat shimmer. "That's new."
Her lips curved in a weary smile. "Are we getting closer?"
Stonefang only sighed — a sound too human in its resignation. He didn't know what he was looking for. Everything here looked the same: the desert's eternal sameness of gold and silence.
"A ruin, boy," she said, resting her cheek against his neck. "We're looking for a ruin."
When the sun began to bleed into dusk, she gave up and dismounted by a lone boulder jutting from the sand. The desert wind had cooled, and she sank down beside Stonefang, her back to the stone. She let out a long, heavy sigh — the kind that scraped against her ribs.
"If you sighed any louder than that," came a voice behind her, warm and familiar, "they'd hear you all the way in Tan'Thalon."
The Diviner's eyes flew open.
Stonefang tensed but didn't lunge this time. He sniffed the air once, then relaxed, tail lowering.
"Talia?" The Diviner stood quickly, the disbelief plain in her face. "How—?"
Talia stepped into the fading light, her armor scuffed, her hair tangled by wind and sand. Her eyes, however, burned with the same unwavering fire.
"Let's just say," she said, with a tired, crooked smile, "I'm not the only one who burns bright."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Calenelda was running, stumbling a little from exhaustion but refusing to slow. When she reached Talia, she didn't speak. She simply threw her arms around her, burying her face against the paladin's shoulder. Talia stood there, stunned, then held her close — her arms wrapping around the Diviner like a promise. The desert wind picked up around them, carrying with it the faint, distant sound of shifting sands — like the temple's memory, sinking further into the earth. But for that moment, under the fading sun, there was only the two of them and the fragile relief of knowing they'd found each other again.
By the time the campfire crackled to life, night had already draped the desert in silver. The stars felt close enough to touch — sharp, cold, and distant — like the eyes of gods that no longer cared to interfere. Talia crouched near the fire, feeding it bits of dry kindling. Her light had been fading ever since the temple. Every time she tried to call on it, it flickered unpredictably, reacting to something in the Diviner she didn't understand. Across from her, the Diviner sat cross-legged with Stonefang's head resting on her lap. She traced her fingers idly through the thick fur along his jaw. The great wolf's golden eyes watched her every motion, unblinking, as if daring her to disappear again. He'd been on edge since she'd used her earth magic to hold the sinking temple. More than once, he had nudged her hand away from the fire, or pressed his head against her shoulder until she stopped moving — as if sensing something fragile inside her he couldn't fix.
"You're overreacting, old friend," Calenelda murmured, half-amused.
Stonefang's ear flicked back at her tone — soft but wary. Talia leaned back on her hands, watching them.
"He's not wrong to worry."
The Diviner looked up, an eyebrow arched. "You sound like him now."
"I'm starting to see why he growls every time you get that look in your eyes."
The Diviner laughed — a short, bright sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That look?"
"The one that means you're about to do something insane and call it insight."
Stonefang gave a low rumble, tail thumping once against the sand. Talia wasn't sure if it was agreement or warning.
The Diviner's smile softened. "I'm not reckless," she said, though her tone was too light to be convincing. "I just don't… hesitate anymore."
"That's what worries me." Talia leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You used to weigh every choice. You don't now. It's like you're still you, but the part that second-guessed — the part that feared what you might lose — is gone."
"It is gone." Calenelda's voice was quiet. "The temple took it."
Stonefang shifted uneasily, his head lifting from her lap. His gaze flicked between them, low growl resonating in his chest. The Diviner's hand came up to soothe him, but he didn't settle.
Talia sighed. "He can feel it, you know. You burning hotter. Moving faster. He's afraid you'll outrun yourself."
"Then he's in good company."
"Telling me you're fine doesn't make it true."
The Diviner's eyes lifted to her, luminous in the firelight. "You don't trust me anymore."
"I don't trust how little you fear anymore," Talia said, the words coming out harsher than she meant. "You used to hold back because you knew the cost. Now, you act like the cost doesn't exist."
Calenelda's lips parted — then closed again. For a moment, the fire popped, and the silence between them thickened. Stonefang shifted again, placing himself halfway between them, as if instinctively guarding both at once. His hackles weren't raised, but his stance was alert — protective.
Talia met the wolf's golden gaze and sighed. "Even he can see it. You're not as careful as you used to be."
Calenelda reached up and touched Stonefang's neck, her hand steady.
"He's right to guard me. I'm… still adjusting. Losing that fear — it's like removing a wall and realizing the wind has teeth."
Talia's eyes softened. "It'll take time."
The Diviner nodded, gaze distant. "Then promise me something, Wildfire."
Talia tilted her head.
"If I act too impulsive — if I go too far — temper me. Even if I fight you for it."
Talia hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I will."
"Good," the Diviner murmured. "Because I don't think I can stop myself, not yet."
She turned her sightless gaze on Talia again, that look in her eyes again. Talia noticed.
"You're about to jump again, aren't you?" She sighed.
"We kissed Talia."
The statement caught her off guard and Talia froze. Nevertheless, the Diviner continued.
"You care about me. And if you're going to temper me, you should at least know my name, even if you already know it somehow.."
The Diviner leaned in to Talia, with her fear and restraint gone she did what she wanted to without thinking and planted a kiss on Talia's already rod hot cheek.
"My name is Calenelda." She whispered softer than a feather in Talia's ear.
Before she had a chance to react, the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of metal and ozone — remnants of old magic buried deep beneath the sands. Stonefang's ears perked immediately, a low snarl rippling through him.
"What is it?" Talia asked.
The Diviner's expression darkened. "Something near us. Something waking."
Stonefang growled again, deeper this time. His eyes gleamed with reflected firelight — and something else. Talia stood, her hand automatically moving to her sword.
"You said the temple was done."
Calenelda's gaze lingered on the horizon. "I did. But I think Ba'Ham never truly leaves the places that burn."
Stonefang's growl became a low, steady hum — protective, angry, alive. Talia exchanged a look with the Diviner. For the first time since the temple, she saw something flicker in those storm-green eyes. Not fear — but something close to it.
Resolve.
Talia and Calenelda exchanged a look, and Stonefang's ears pressed flat. His fur bristled, tail stiff.
"It's coming from the west," the Diviner murmured.
She pressed her palm to the sand, eyes narrowing.
"The ruins. Foxglove!"
Stonefang growled, low and uncertain, stepping back. The glow from the fire shuddered, flickering across his coat like restless shadows.
"Stonefang seems restless. What's wrong with him?" Talia asked, hand hovering near her sword.
The Diviner didn't answer. She stood, brushing the sand from what was left of her robes.
"I don't know" she said quietly "He's been acting strange ever since the temple."
"He's reacting to how you've changed." Talia said as a statement.
She needed the Diviner to realize how much she had changed and how it affected everyone around her. But that seemed like a daunting task.
"Perhaps." was Calenelda's absent reply.
There was something other than fearless or cheerful on her features. For the first time since the temple, Talia saw a hint of worry.
"It's getting too dark to search for the ruins now," Talia said, placing a comforting hand on Calenelda's shoulder "We should make camp and continue in the morning."
Night held the desert like a slow breath. The fire crackled low, its embers licking at the cold. Talia slept close by, her sword within reach, armor loosened but not abandoned. The Diviner sat apart, knees drawn up, her face turned to the flames. Her skin still glimmered faintly beneath the soot — that strange inner light that had stayed with her ever since the temple. Across from her, in the wavering glow, Stonefang paced. The great wolf's paws made no sound on the sand, but his movements were restless, his shadow long and torn at the edges. His hackles were raised. His ears twitched toward the remnants of the forge, then back toward her.
"You're loud tonight," the Diviner said softly. "Too loud for a ghost and too quiet for comfort."
Stonefang stopped. His gaze met hers, and she saw it — the red flicker behind the gold. It wasn't anger. It was hunger. The Diviner tilted her head, studying him.
"You feel it too, don't you? The pull."
Stonefang growled — low, a sound half swallowed, like thunder far off.
"Is something calling you?" she murmured.
The wolf snarled again, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought. But his body betrayed him — a ripple of tension ran through his muscles, the fur along his spine bristling. The Diviner rose slowly, brushing sand from her cloak. The movement made Stonefang back away a step, his claws digging deep furrows.
"Easy," she said, her voice calm but commanding.
The wolf barked once, sharp and pained. His eyes blazed, reflecting the firelight like molten metal. Talia stirred in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent. The Diviner glanced her way, then back to her companion.
"It's not her fight," she said quietly. "It's ours."
Stonefang's growl deepened.
"You came across my path years ago," she reminded him. "Chose to stay by my side. Whatever it is, I won't leave yours."
Her voice softened, almost pleading. "You said it with your silence. With your patience. You let me trust you before I even trusted myself."
Stonefang let out a low, mournful whine, lowering his head until it rested against her shoulder. Talia, now awake but silent, watched from the shadows. The firelight glinted off her eyes, wide and unblinking.
The Diviner's voice softened to a whisper. "Let what plagues you burn through me instead. I have nothing left to fear, remember?"
The wolf's body relaxed — only a fraction. His breath steadied. The red faded completely, leaving only that deep, stormy amber. He nudged her once, then settled beside her, his flank brushing against her knee. When the Diviner looked up again, the desert had gone still. The fire had burned down to a steady, golden glow.
The Diviner smiled, weary and bright all at once. "That's my boy."
She leaned against him, her hand buried in his fur. His warmth was grounding, a reminder that even in the tug-of-war between gods, something mortal, something real, still held fast.
Talia, watching the two of them silhouetted in the dying firelight, saw it clearly:
The Diviner had lost her fear.
Stonefang had not.
And between them, that fragile, unspoken balance might be the only thing keeping the night from swallowing them whole.
The fire had burned itself down to a low, pulsing glow — the kind that clings to life out of sheer stubbornness. Talia sat awake, the heat brushing against her armor, her thoughts heavy as the desert air. The Diviner slept beside Stonefang now, curled against his flank like a weary traveler finally finding home. The wolf's great head rested near her shoulder, his breaths deep but uneven — every exhale a soft growl, as though he was in deep dreams. Talia couldn't look away. Something in that picture — Diviner and beast, both in inner turmoil, both willing to risk everything — set her teeth on edge and her heart twisting at once.
The Diviner had always been careful. Cautious to a fault. The kind of woman who never said what she felt unless cornered by honesty. But now… now she burned too brightly. Every word she spoke felt like she was testing how close she could stand to the edge before gravity remembered her name. And Stonefang — the most disciplined creature Talia had ever met — was now suffering something unseen and he was unable to communicate what it was. Two beings, bound by loyalty and power, each losing the thing that once kept them tethered. Each other.
Talia pulled her knees up to her chest, staring at the sand shifting in the faint wind. Her hand drifted to the hilt of her sword — not for comfort, but habit. The motion grounded her.
"Fear keeps you alive," her old mentor had told her once. "Faith keeps you moving. Forget one, and you'll lose the other."
She glanced toward Calenelda. The woman's face was calm, almost peaceful — but there was something hollow in it now, something missing. Her usual careful stillness had been replaced by a strange ease, as though the weight she used to carry had simply… vanished. Only Talia knew what it had cost. Only she remembered the fear the Diviner had given up. And now that it was gone, Talia wasn't sure what remained.
Stonefang stirred, his ears twitching. His eyes opened — and for a moment, Talia swore she saw the faintest flicker of red return. Then it was gone again. The wolf huffed softly, pressing closer to his mistress. A silent promise, or a warning — Talia couldn't tell. She sighed quietly.
"You and I both, friend," she murmured. "We're the only ones afraid anymore."
The wolf's gaze flicked toward her, intelligent and tired. He seemed to understand. Talia leaned back on her hands, looking up at the stars. How small they seemed tonight — as though the gods had dimmed them out of shame. The Diviner had faced Ba'Ham's curse, May'Jahan's grace, and the hunger of the temple, and she'd come out alive — but changed. And Talia couldn't shake the feeling that change wasn't finished yet.
A reckless woman without fear.
A wolf torn by the unknown.
And herself — caught somewhere in the middle, afraid of losing them both.
She looked over at the Diviner one last time. The faint glow still traced her skin — not harsh, but alive, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Don't burn out," she whispered, barely audible. "Please."
The wind shifted then, carrying the smell of smoke and something older — the temple's memory still breathing beneath the sand. Stonefang's ears flicked. His tail thumped once against the ground, a sound like a heartbeat.
Talia stayed awake until dawn, watching the line between them — woman, wolf, and the slow dance of their shared undoing — and wondering how long balance could last when fear itself had been taken away.
Morning came slowly, like the desert itself was reluctant to wake. A thin gold light spilled over the dunes, and the air shimmered with the promise of heat. The world was still — too still — except for the rhythmic rasp of Stonefang's breathing. Talia sat near the ashes of their fire, absently turning a pebble in her fingers. Her armor was half-donned, her hair tangled from the night wind. She hadn't slept. That much was clear from the bags under her eyes. Calenelda stirred beside Stonefang, stretching like a cat. Her movements were looser now — fluid, almost careless. When her eyes opened, they caught the dawn like mirrors — flecked with gold instead of their usual calm milky green.
"Morning," she said, voice husky with sleep but laced with an energy that felt… off.
Too light. Too alive.
Talia gave a small nod. "You slept well."
"I dreamed." Calenelda smiled faintly, brushing sand from her sleeve. "About fire and roots. I think they were arguing."
Talia frowned. "You joke about it."
The Diviner's gaze flicked up to her — amused, but soft. "Would you rather I brood?"
"I'd rather you acknowledge what happened," Talia said. Her tone wasn't sharp, but it landed heavy between them. "You nearly let that thing take you."
The Diviner tilted her head, thoughtful. "And yet, I'm still here."
Stonefang huffed, standing and shaking sand from his coat. He circled them once before sitting down beside Talia, closer than usual. His presence felt like a silent judgment.
"You're different," Talia continued. "He knows it. I know it. You've changed since you lost your fear."
The Diviner leaned back on her hands, watching the dunes glow under the rising sun.
"Maybe I just found the part of myself that was tired of being afraid."
"That's not what I mean." Talia's voice lowered. "You're reckless. You don't hesitate anymore. You don't think before you act."
The Diviner's smile didn't fade, but her eyes darkened. "You're afraid I'll get myself killed."
"I'm afraid you'll forget why you ever tried not to be."
That silenced her. For a long moment, only the wind moved between them. Stonefang turned his head toward the Diviner, rumbling low. The Diviner reached out, resting a hand on his mane.
"Even he agrees with you," she said quietly. "I can feel it through him — the worry."
"Because he knows you," Talia said. "He trusted you to lead with your heart and your mind. Now it's like the first one took over and dragged the other behind."
The Diviner sighed, fingers curling into Stonefang's fur. "You think I can't adjust."
"I think you haven't had time to."
She looked at her, finally meeting Talia's gaze. For the first time since the temple, her expression softened — stripped of wit, stripped of pretense.
"Maybe you're right."
Talia's chest eased a little. "Then let me help. Let me be the fear you've lost until you learn how to live without it."
The Diviner's lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "You'd make a very inconvenient conscience, Wildfire."
"I've been called worse."
They both laughed then — tired, but real. The sound felt like something ancient shaking off the dust. After a moment, the Diviner reached out, her hand brushing Talia's gauntlet.
"Then temper me," she said quietly. "When I run too far, pull me back. When I act without thought, remind me what it costs."
Talia nodded, her throat tight. "I can do that."
"And when you forget to live because you're too afraid to feel," the Diviner added, "I'll do the same."
Talia met her eyes, searching. "You remember that memory."
"I do." The Diviner's voice softened. "It's strange, isn't it? You gave it up, but I remember it for you. The moment you learned to hide from love."
Talia's breath caught.
"I think," the Diviner said, her smile gentle now, "we've both been taught to fear happiness. Maybe losing mine will help you find yours."
Stonefang shifted, lying down between them — his head resting across both their boots. The contact was grounding, real, solid.
Talia reached down, stroking his fur. "He's worried about you."
"I know," the Diviner said. "And I'm worried about him."
"Why?"
Her eyes drifted to the horizon, where the faint trace of the buried temple still broke the sand. "Because I feel that something is calling him and I fear that one day, I might not be the one he chooses to listen to."
Talia's hand stilled. "Then we'll find out what it is."
The Diviner smiled, but it was distant. "You always say we, don't you?"
"Because I mean it."
The wind shifted again — warm, dry, but carrying the faintest trace of something metallic. The memory of flame. The Diviner stood, brushing off her cloak.
"Then let's move. Before the day decides to turn against us."
As they walked, Stonefang padded between them, his tail brushing both their hands like a thread keeping them tied together — fragile, tense, but unbroken. And as the sun rose higher over the desert, Talia knew one truth would follow them from here on:
The Diviner had lost her fear,
but she hadn't lost her heart.
By midday, the dunes had begun to change — no longer soft and golden, but streaked with black, as though ash had been buried beneath the sand and never cooled. Stonefang walked ahead, nose low, his paws leaving deep impressions in the scorched earth. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the memory of burned wood and old incense. When the first toppled wall came into view, Talia slowed. What remained of the village sprawled across the valley like a skeleton — half-swallowed by sand, roofs collapsed inward, doorways leading only to darkness. The wind whispered through hollow beams, carrying with it faint chimes that had once hung from shrines.
The Diviner stood still, her eyes distant. "It's worse than I thought."
Talia glanced at her. "You've seen this place before?"
That earned her a wry smile as she jokingly waved in front of her eyes.
"Did you forget again? I can't have seen it." the Diviner smirked "But I have felt it in dreams, but dreams are kinder."
Stonefang stopped near what might once have been a temple courtyard. The sand there had hardened into a strange glassy surface, like melted stone. His ears pinned back. A growl rumbled in his throat. Talia felt it too — the wrongness. The ground pulsed faintly, as if still alive beneath them.
She drew her sword, light flaring pale along the edge. "It's not dead."
"No," the Diviner murmured, crouching to touch the ground. "It remembers."
At her touch, faint symbols flared — runes of Ba'Ham, burned into the glass itself. They pulsed once and then faded, leaving the scent of smoke and salt in the air.
Talia grimaced. "You shouldn't—"
"Touch it?" The Diviner smirked. "Too late."
"Diviner—"
But before Talia could finish, the ground shuddered. A thin crack split the glass beneath them, stretching toward the ruined well at the center of the square. Stonefang barked sharply, backing away. From the darkness below, something answered. A long, drawn-out sound — not a roar, not a scream, but a call. A sound that had been waiting for ages.
Talia's grip tightened. "That came from below."
"Yes," Calenelda said. "And it's not the temple."
The voice of the Nyxir from before flickered in Talia's mind — There is another of my kind, trapped in the ruins. Find her.
"Foxglove," she breathed.
The Diviner's smile softened. "Ah. Yes." She pressed a palm to her chest. "I can feel her now. Deep below. The temple's shadow stretches here — she's caught in it."
"Then we dig her out."
The Diviner's eyes gleamed, reckless and bright. "No time for digging."
She spread her hands, and the air around them shifted — a tremor rolling through the ground as if the earth itself took a breath. Cracks spidered outward, lifting fragments of stone and sand into a low orbit around her.
Talia's stomach dropped. "Calenelda, stop. You're overusing your magic again."
The Diviner didn't look at her. "If we wait, she dies."
"Or you do."
The Diviner's grin flickered — wild, radiant. "Then make sure it's worth it."
The air exploded. Dust and shards of glassy stone flew skyward as a column of dark sand spiraled upward, parting to reveal the well — deeper now, open and pulsing with an inner light. From within came a faint, broken sound — a voice like wings scraping against rock.
Talia peered down, heart hammering. "There's something moving."
Stonefang barked once, tail rigid.
The Diviner leaned over the edge. "Foxglove," she called. "Can you hear me?"
A soft hiss answered — then a whisper that carried up like smoke.
"The fire dreams still. It won't let me wake."
The Diviner's face tightened. "She's still bound."
"Then we'll cut her loose," Talia said, already looping rope from her pack.
The Diviner caught her wrist. "If you go down there, it'll sense you. Ba'Ham's sight is still on you."
"So what do you suggest?"
She smiled — dangerous, alive. "Let me go instead."
"Absolutely not."
"Then we both do," the Diviner countered. "You're my anchor, remember?"
Talia's jaw tightened, but she couldn't argue. The Diviner was right — if the thing below was part of Ba'Ham's forgotten work, it would hunger for her light, pure memory. But it was the Diviner's fearlessness that terrified her now, not her power.
"Fine," Talia said. "But we do this together."
The Diviner nodded once. "Together."
Stonefang growled, low and warning, but when the Diviner placed a hand on his snout, he stilled.
"If I'm wrong," she whispered to him, "you keep her safe."
The wolf huffed softly — resignation, not agreement.
The Diviner turned back to Talia, her smile faint but fierce. "Ready?"
Talia exhaled. "Not even slightly."
"Good," the Diviner said, stepping toward the edge. "Then we're doing it right."
They descended together, swallowed by the light below — one carrying the fire, the other the memory of fear — while Stonefang watched from above, ears flat against his skull. And as they vanished into the depths, the wolf turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the sun met the sand, and howled — long and low, a sound that trembled between warning and prayer.
The well's shaft twisted downward like the throat of some ancient beast. The deeper they went, the warmer the air became — thick, suffocating, shot through with motes of red light that pulsed in time with their heartbeats. Talia descended last, light shimmering faintly around her armor. The Diviner was ahead, her movements sure, almost graceful despite the jagged stone beneath her bare feet. She didn't even glance down.
"Diviner," Talia called, voice echoing. "You're burning too fast."
"I'm fine," Calenelda said — the same lie she'd used since the temple.
"You're not."
A laugh drifted up from below. "You worry too much, Wildfire."
When they reached the bottom, the tunnel opened into a chamber. The air shimmered with heat. At its center stood a figure — or what had once been one. Foxglove hung suspended in the air, her body cocooned by strands of molten glass. Her wings — great, leathery things — were spread wide, frozen mid-beat. The light in her veins flickered faintly, alternating between the pale glow of May'Jahan and the crimson blaze of Ba'Ham.
Talia's stomach twisted. "She's… alive."
"Barely," the Diviner murmured. She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Ba'Ham's fire binds her — a remnant of his will. It's using her as a vessel."
"Then how do we break it?"
The Diviner tilted her head, thinking. "We don't."
Talia frowned. "What?"
"We unmake it," the Diviner said simply. "The bond, the remnant — all of it."
She raised her hand. Stone crumbled under her feet, the air around her rippling with heat and power. Her magic — fractured and worn thin — bled out in visible waves.
"Calenelda, no—"
"Trust me," she said, and there was a terrible brightness in her eyes. "It's only a god's echo. I can drown it."
She began to chant. The language wasn't one Talia recognized — not entirely divine, not entirely mortal. The sound crawled across the walls, tugging at the seams of reality itself. The runes on Foxglove's cocoon flared, answering her. For a moment, the chamber filled with the sound of fire — a low, breathing roar.
Then the light turned violent. Flames erupted from the floor, spiraling around the Diviner like a serpent. She grit her teeth, driving her staff into the ground to anchor herself. The glass cracked beneath her feet.
"Diviner!"
"Almost—" she gasped, "—there!"
But the fire didn't retreat. It fought back. The remnant within Foxglove writhed, recognizing her power — a rival flame. The cocoon pulsed, shattering in bursts of molten shards. For a heartbeat, Foxglove's eyes opened — twin silver voids, reflecting both godly lights.
"You cannot take what was bound," the fire hissed through her mouth. "She belongs to Him."
The Diviner snarled, voice rising. "Then take it up with Her!"
She slammed her palm against her chest — a flash of white light bursting outward, like the shattering of glass. Talia staggered backward, shielding her face. For a moment, another light answered — softer, cooler. May'Jahan's grace. It wrapped around the Diviner's flame, tempering it, keeping her from burning out completely.
The chamber went still.
When the light faded, Foxglove collapsed to the ground. The glassy residue that had bound her was gone, evaporated into mist. The Diviner fell to one knee, breathing hard. Her hands shook. The faint runes across her skin glowed like dying coals.
Talia rushed to her side. "You're insane."
The Diviner's laugh was weak, breathless. "You say that like it's new."
"How did you even know how to do that?"
Calenelda shrugged. "I don't know. I just did what my instinct told me."
"Do you even realize what you just did?"
"Saved her."
"You could've died!"
"Maybe," the Diviner said, leaning back against the stone. "But I didn't." Her eyes fluttered open, still burning faintly gold. "May'Jahan caught me."
Talia froze. "You… felt Her?"
"I think She's been with me since the temple." A wry smile tugged at her lips. "Apparently She has a thing for reckless women."
Before Talia could respond, a rasping cough came from nearby. Foxglove was stirring, weak but alive. Her wings trembled.
Talia moved toward her, but the Nyxir flinched away, whispering hoarsely, "You broke His fire. I can feel… air again."
The Diviner smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
Foxglove's gaze darted to her. "You reek of both gods."
"Story of my life," the Diviner said, trying to stand — and failing.
Talia caught her before she fell. "Easy."
The Diviner didn't argue this time. Her body trembled, the exhaustion finally breaking through.
"If this keeps up," she muttered, "I'll need to start rationing my recklessness."
Talia couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her. "That'd be a first."
"Don't get used to it."
Above them, the well groaned — the same deep, shifting sound the temple had made before sinking. The ground shook violently, sending dust cascading from the ceiling.
Talia's head snapped up. "It's collapsing."
The Diviner sighed. "Of course it is."
"Can you—"
"Hold it?" The Diviner smirked weakly. "Probably not. But I'll try anyway."
She raised her trembling hand, the earth rumbling in response. The chamber resisted, walls shuddering as if caught between sinking and rising.
Talia gritted her teeth, hauling Foxglove toward the rope. "We're getting out!"
"Go!" the Diviner shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "I'll keep it steady!"
But the look in her eyes told Talia she was already at her limit. Still, Talia obeyed — dragging the weakened Nyxir upward, praying the Diviner could hold just long enough. When the first beam of moonlight spilled through the opening above, Talia turned back — and saw her. The Diviner stood beneath the collapsing chamber, one arm raised, her staff buried in the ground, the earth trembling in her grasp. Her hair whipped around her face, her eyes gleaming with reckless, radiant defiance.
"Move, damn you!" she shouted at the temple itself.
And for once, the earth listened. The stone groaned — shifted — and stilled. A moment later, the Diviner stumbled free, coated in dust, laughing breathlessly.
Talia caught her again, half furious, half in awe. "You're going to kill yourself."
The Diviner smiled faintly. "Probably," she said. "But not tonight."
They made camp not far from the ruins — if it could be called that. From where they sat, the temple was gone, swallowed beneath the dunes. Only a faint glow pulsed now and then under the sand, like a dying ember trying to remember how to burn. Talia sat close to the fire, elbows on her knees, watching the flames sway in the wind. She had cleaned her armor but hadn't bothered to remove it. The weight grounded her. Foxglove lay a few paces away, her wings folded close. The Nyxir's skin still shimmered faintly in places, like glass catching light. She'd said little since they escaped — her voice soft, as though afraid to disturb the stillness. In the soft light of the camp fire, Talia noticed her sharper features. Being a noble born she hadn't seen many other sentient species, so she couldn't help but stare a little. It was so that she noticed the slightly upward tilted nose and exceptionally large ears. Even her mouth was different, showing a portion of her fangs, which made Talia fear she would drink her blood. Her hair had a pinkish hue to it, though with how tangled it was, she couldn't tell how long it was. And across from Talia, the Diviner sat with her knees drawn up, hair messy and unbound, eyes on the stars. The faint glow beneath her skin had faded to something subtle now, more breath than light. Talia broke the silence first.
"You shouldn't have done that."
The Diviner didn't look at her. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"Unbinding a god's remnant with half your strength and no backup sounds pretty specific to me."
A soft laugh escaped the Diviner — more weary than amused. "You're starting to sound like Stonefang."
"Maybe he had the right idea."
The Diviner finally looked at her. Her expression was unreadable in the firelight, but her eyes carried that same reckless spark — the one that hadn't faded since she'd lost her fear.
"She was trapped, Talia," she said softly. "If we hadn't done something, she would've burned forever. You saw it."
"I did," Talia admitted, her voice low. "But I also saw you almost go with her."
The Diviner smiled faintly. "Maybe I needed to."
Talia's jaw tightened. "Don't joke."
"I'm not." She stared into the fire. "May'Jahan didn't stop me from jumping — She stopped me from breaking. Maybe that was the point."
Talia said nothing for a long while. The flames crackled softly between them. Finally, she spoke again.
"You changed, Calenelda. The way you move, the way you speak — even the way you look at danger. It's like you're not afraid of anything anymore."
"I'm not." The Diviner's voice was quiet. "That's the problem."
Talia blinked. The Diviner looked down at her hands — the faint burn marks that would never fully fade.
"When fear leaves, it takes more than caution. It takes the space where you measured risk, the pause before the leap. I still feel it missing, like an echo in the bones."
"So you know you're reckless."
"Oh, completely." She gave a soft, humorless laugh. "But that doesn't mean I can stop."
Talia's chest tightened. "That's what I mean. You lost it too suddenly. You didn't have time to adjust. Fear keeps us from falling too fast."
"Maybe," the Diviner said, lifting her gaze to meet Talia's. "But I think you lost something too."
Talia frowned. "What do you mean?"
The Diviner tilted her head slightly, studying her. "I know what memory you gave the temple. What you feared. What you hid."
Talia froze.
"You gave up your moment of truth — the first time you realized who you are. The shame, the pain, the rejection… it's gone now. You don't carry it anymore. You don't hide."
Talia looked away, the words catching somewhere deep. "…You saw it."
The Diviner nodded softly. "I didn't mean to. The temple showed me. Maybe that's why I trust you more than anyone else."
They sat in silence, the fire painting their faces gold and shadow.
Finally, Talia said quietly, "You asked me once to stop you if you ever go too far. That still stands."
"It does," the Diviner said. Her voice was tired now, but genuine. "Anchor me, Talia. When I forget what fear was for."
Talia hesitated, then reached out — placing her hand over the Diviner's. Her armor was cold, the Diviner's skin warm as living stone.
"I will," she said simply.
Calenelda smiled faintly, eyes closing for a moment. "Then maybe there's hope for both of us yet."
Foxglove stirred then, her voice a whisper from the dark. "Hope," she said slowly, "is not something gods leave behind easily. You carry their echoes now — both of you."
Talia turned to her. "You said that before. What does it mean?"
The Nyxir's gaze was distant, her voice thin. "Ba'Ham's remnant will sleep, but not forever. You broke His chain on me, but not His will on the desert. And May'Jahan — She watches through your Diviner's eyes now. The two will meet again."
Calenelda gave a small, crooked smile. "Wonderful. Two gods, a broken human and a wolf with issues. That's a party."
Foxglove's eyes glinted faintly, unreadable. "Do not jest, sorceress. The desert remembers. And it never forgets those who defy its flame."
The wind shifted, stirring the sand around them. The temple's glow had faded at last — no light, no sound, only silence and starlight. Talia looked at the Diviner, who was watching the horizon now, her expression soft and distant. And for the first time, Talia wondered if what she saw now — the humor, the boldness, the warmth — was not the Diviner's change, but her truth, finally unburied.
The desert stretched endless beneath the morning sun. Every dune shimmered, rippling with heat, as though the world itself were trying to forget what had been buried under it. They'd been walking since dawn. Talia led, her armor dulled by sand and time, her sword slung low at her hip. The Diviner walked beside her, barefoot despite the heat, her steps unnaturally sure. Foxglove trailed behind, hood drawn, wings folded tight beneath it — a Nyxir trying to pass for something almost human. Though given how slender and tall she was compared to the two humans, it gave her an almost eerie look. The silence between them was companionable, but strained. Each carried something they couldn't quite name.
Talia again broke it first.
"Nearest settlement's a day out, if we keep heading south," she said. "There's a trading post on the edge of the salt flats. Maybe we'll find supplies. Maybe help."
"Help," the Diviner repeated, voice dry. "Do you really think May'Jahan's priests will welcome us? Me, half-tainted by Ba'Ham's fire; you, marked by him; and a Nyxir, drained by him."
"Would you prefer we just wander until we drop?"
The Diviner smirked. "You'd make a terrible guide, Wildfire."
Talia didn't rise to it. The old teasing tone was back — but it wasn't the same. There was no caution behind it now, no subtle read of how far she could push before crossing a line. The Diviner simply said what she wanted, when she wanted. Reckless honesty, like the rest of her.
"You're still not sleeping," Talia said after a while.
"Can't," the Diviner replied. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that fire staring back. Not Ba'Ham's — the temple's. I think it remembers me."
"It marked you."
The Diviner shrugged lightly. "Marks fade. Eventually."
Foxglove's voice came from behind, dry as sand. "Not ones made by gods."
The Diviner stopped, turning to look at her. "Speaking from experience?"
The Nyxir lowered her hood. Her face was still pale from the ordeal, but her eyes glimmered with an odd intelligence — old, maybe older than both women combined.
"I've felt the pull of Him the entire time I was in that temple," Foxglove said. "I thought it was purpose. It was hunger. You tore that hunger from me."
"You're welcome."
Foxglove's jaw tightened. "It left a hole."
The Diviner studied her for a long moment. "Maybe holes are where new things grow."
Talia sighed, brushing the sand off her vambrace. "You two are starting to sound like a pair of philosophers."
"Just survivors," the Diviner said.
They walked on. By noon, the wind picked up — dry and sharp, carrying whispers of old stone. Talia glanced over her shoulder more than once, half expecting to see something rising from the dunes. But the horizon stayed clean, unbroken. Only Foxglove noticed it first — the faint hum in the air.
She flinched, wings twitching under her cloak. "Do you hear that?"
Talia frowned. "Hear what?"
"The hum," Foxglove said, voice tight. "It's not the wind. It's… calling."
The Diviner went still. "The temple."
"No," Foxglove whispered. "Something else. Something under it. You stirred the foundation when you broke the bond."
Talia's hand went to her sword. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Foxglove said, looking to the horizon, "we didn't bury it deep enough."
For a while, none of them spoke. The only sound was the hiss of wind across the sand and the faint rasp of armor shifting.
Eventually, the Diviner exhaled softly. "Then we'll fix it."
Talia glanced at her. "With what power, Calenelda? You're running on fumes."
"There's something else you should know," the Nyxir said. "The villagers who built that temple — they weren't cursed by the gods. They were fed to them. Every sacrifice, every prayer, every act of madness kept the memory alive. It's still hungry. It will find new mouths."
The words sat heavy between them. Talia stared into the distance — at the faint shimmer that marked the edge of the salt flats. Civilization. Maybe. But in her chest, she could still feel the faint echo of the temple's pull. When she finally spoke, her voice was low.
"Then we stop it before it finds anyone else."
The Diviner looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the reckless grin faded. In its place was something quieter. Fiercer.
"Together, then," she said.
Talia nodded once. "Together."
They walked on in silence. Behind them, the wind erased their footprints one by one, until it was as though no one had ever crossed that stretch of desert at all. Only the faintest tremor beneath the sand remained — not movement, not yet — but memory.
By dusk, the desert broke apart into stone and silence. White crusts of salt spread like frost across the ground, glittering under the failing sun. The air here tasted different — sharp, metallic, faintly sweet with decay. The settlement wasn't much. A scattering of low, mud-brick dwellings, half sunk into the earth to escape the heat. Smoke rose from chimneys that looked ready to crumble at a touch. Talia stopped at the edge of the nearest street. Children's laughter drifted faintly from somewhere deeper within, but it sounded wrong. Off-tempo. Like echoes lagging half a heartbeat behind. She glanced toward Calenelda. The Diviner's face was pale in the half-light, her expression unreadable. She could feel the tension radiating from her — that instinctive awareness of something unnatural stirring nearby.
Foxglove pulled her hood lower, murmuring under her breath. "This place… it hums."
Talia frowned. "Like the temple?"
The Nyxir's eyes glinted. "No. Quieter. But it's the same tune."
They passed through the narrow streets. The villagers nodded in greeting, some offering hesitant smiles — but their eyes lingered too long, their gazes unfocused, as if watching something beyond the three travelers. At one corner, a man tended a brazier. The smoke that rose from it wasn't gray — it was red. Thin, acrid threads of crimson curling into the sky. Calenelda stopped cold.
"Ba'Ham's fire," she whispered.
Talia's hand went to her sword instantly. "How?"
The man smiled without looking up. "A blessing," he said softly. "To keep the cold away."
"There's no cold in this desert," Talia said flatly.
"No," the man agreed, eyes unfocused. "But it's coming."
Calenelda stepped forward, every trace of her earlier recklessness gone. "Who taught you to light that flame?"
"The desert," he said simply, as though that explained everything. Then he turned away, humming under his breath — the same rhythm Talia had heard in the dunes. The three of them left without another word. By the time they reached the edge of town again, the air had grown thick. The scent of ash clung to everything — faint, like the memory of a fire that had never truly gone out. They stopped near a half-collapsed well. Calenelda sank to the ground beside it, her legs trembling from exhaustion she no longer tried to hide.
Talia crouched beside her. "You felt it too."
Calenelda nodded, rubbing her temple. "The same hunger. The same pull. It's weaker, but it's spreading."
Foxglove's wings shifted beneath her cloak. "You didn't seal it," she said quietly. "You only delayed it."
Calenelda shot her a sharp look. "I killed what was left of Ba'Ham's remnant."
"You killed its mouth," Foxglove corrected softly. "Not its memory."
Talia exhaled slowly. The weight of it all pressed down like heat. "So what? We hunt it? Burn every ember left in the sand?"
Calenelda shook her head. "No. This isn't a hunt. It's a contagion. The memory's carried through faith now — through the minds of those who saw the temple burn. We can't cleanse that by force."
For a long while, the only sound was the hiss of salt underfoot and the whisper of the wind through the well. Talia sat back against the stone rim, staring at the sky.
"Then what do we do?"
Neither answered immediately.
Finally, Calenelda spoke, voice low but certain. "We go back."
Talia blinked. "Back?"
"To Tan'Thalon," the Diviner said. "To the Council. They need to see what we've found. They need to understand what's waking in the south."
Foxglove tilted her head, wary. "You would bring this before the Council of May'Jahan? They will see you as a heretic. Half-touched by Ba'Ham, wielding His flame and Hers."
Calenelda's smile was thin, humorless. "Then they can learn to see more clearly."
Talia stared at her. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"You hate the Council. You called them a collection of half-blind hypocrites who think bureaucracy counts as divine insight."
Calenelda smirked faintly. "I did. And I was right. But they're still the only ones with the means to contain this before it spreads."
Talia hesitated, weighing the truth in that. The Council was fractured — half loyal to May'Jahan, half wary of Ba'Ham's surviving influence — but they were powerful. If anyone could marshal the resources needed to study and contain a divine remnant, it was them.
Foxglove crouched near the fire, her voice soft. "You will not be welcomed. Not by their priests, not by their Templars. You carry too much of the fire in you now."
Calenelda looked at her, unflinching. "Then I'll let them see what it made of me."
There was silence. The kind of silence that meant the decision was already made. Talia finally stood, looking north. The stars had begun to fade, swallowed by the faint pink of coming dawn. The road to Tan'Thalon stretched out like a wound through the desert — long, lonely, unforgiving. She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword, feeling the faint warmth of divine energy beneath her fingers.
"Then we go. But we go carefully. If the Council sees you as a threat, they'll try to take you apart before they ever listen."
Calenelda smirked tiredly. "They can try."
Talia sighed. "You're impossible."
"Probably," the Diviner said, rising to her feet. "But so are you."
Foxglove watched them both for a moment before unfurling her wings slightly, testing their strength. "Then I will go with you. Someone has to tell your Council what they're facing."
Talia raised an eyebrow. "You trust them?"
"No," Foxglove said simply. "But I trust the one who burned for me."
Calenelda gave her a small, almost genuine smile. "That might be the most ominous compliment I've ever received."
Talia looked between them — one reckless, the other haunted — and then at the horizon again. Tan'Thalon waited beyond the desert, its spires rising behind the arc wall like the teeth of a sleeping beast. Home to the Council. Home to secrets. And beneath the sand behind them, the temple's memory still whispered.