— the kind of light that looked half-remembered.
They traveled quietly, the wind a soft chorus of whispers across the dunes. When they stopped beneath a crumbling stone pillar etched with ancient marks, Nakala traced a line of symbols with her fingertips.
"What language is this?" she asked.
Iri'okan's eyes flickered toward the stone. "That's Histinak script. The old tongue of rhythm."
She frowned. "You mean magic?"
The demon's laugh was soft and bitter. "Magic is a word humans made when they forgot how to listen. Histinak isn't cast — it's called. It's the breath that remembers."
He drew his blade and struck the ground lightly. The sand shivered, humming faintly. "Everything that lives carries a rhythm — heartbeat, breath, even thought. We call that rhythm Histinak. When you align your pulse with the world's, the world answers."
> "He is not wrong," Esh'ra murmured inside Nakala's mind.
"I shaped the first rhythm myself. Every spell, every prayer — it all began with my breath."
"So there are different kinds of Histinak?" Nakala asked aloud, sitting beside the stone.
"Three," Iri'okan said, counting them off on his scarred fingers. "Flesh, Breath, and Echo. Flesh governs the body — strength, speed, endurance. Breath touches the soul — memory, emotion, healing. Echo reaches through the Veil itself… bending the border between life and what waits beyond."
He paused, lowering his gaze. "The last one ruins most who try it. Demons are born closer to the Veil, so we endure it longer. Humans…" His voice trailed off.
> "They tear themselves apart," Esh'ra finished. "Their rhythm collapses in on itself — an implosion of song and silence."
Nakala felt a strange pull in her chest. "And what about you?" she whispered inwardly. "What rhythm do you follow?"
> "None," said the goddess. "I am the rhythm."
---
They rested as the heat rose. The horizon shimmered with mirages that almost looked like cities — towers made of wind and dust.
Iri'okan used his blade to sketch circles in the sand.
"Histinak flows through patterns," he said. "You don't command it; you match it. Every motion, every breath, every word you speak — if done in rhythm, it becomes power."
He stood, performing a slow arc with his sword. The air shimmered faintly where the blade passed. "This is Reth'kan, the stance of balance. It channels Histinak of Flesh. A warrior's rhythm. You fight by listening to your heartbeat, not your anger."
He motioned for her to try. Nakala hesitated, then mimicked his movement. Her blade — a crude piece of scavenged metal — felt wrong in her hands. But as she exhaled, the sound of her breath seemed to carry weight. The sand stirred beneath her feet.
"Good," Iri'okan murmured. "You feel it. The first pulse."
> "She feels me," Esh'ra corrected. "My rhythm answers her heartbeat. Our souls are no longer strangers."
Nakala ignored the goddess's smug tone. "What about the other kinds of Histinak? Breath and Echo?"
"Breath is for those who remember," Iri'okan said. "Priests, mourners, and seers. It listens to emotion and memory. You call it by remembering something deeply — someone you've lost, something you've loved. The more real the memory, the stronger the rhythm."
He knelt, pressing his palm into the sand. The ground glowed faintly beneath his hand. "This is the heartbeat of the land. Yours will sound different — softer, more human."
"Show me," she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "It doesn't work like that. Histinak must want to be heard."
---
That night, as they made camp beneath the stars, Nakala couldn't sleep. The words breath that remembers echoed in her mind.
She sat cross-legged beside the dying fire, closing her eyes.
She tried to recall her mother's voice — not her face, not her touch, but her hum, the lullaby she used to sing when storms rolled across the desert.
The melody surfaced faintly, cracked with time, but enough.
The air shifted.
A soft glow bled from her palms, crimson and gold. The sand rippled outward like breath.
Nakala gasped as the rhythm took her — a pulse deep in her bones, alive and ancient. She could feel Esh'ra's presence stirring, feeding it, shaping it.
> "Yes," the goddess whispered. "This is Histinak of Breath. Yours and mine — mortal remembrance woven with divine hunger. You are Soulweaving."
The glow swelled until the shape of a woman flickered before her — her mother, half-shadow, half-light, smiling through tears of sand.
Then the image broke apart, scattering into sparks.
Iri'okan jolted awake. "Nakala— what did you do?"
She trembled, staring at her hands. "I… remembered."
The air still thrummed around her, heavy with unseen rhythm.
> "You have awakened your path," Esh'ra said softly. "Not as human, not as god — but as the bridge between the two. The first true Histinak of Breath in a thousand years."
The sand beneath her shimmered once more, leaving a faint sigil that pulsed like a heartbeat — neither human nor divine, but something in between.
---
End of Chapter Four