The soil beneath the roots suddenly gave way.

  The collapse came not far from where Veyra stood.

  He stepped back at once, avoiding the loosened edge. Lowering his head, he tested the air with a careful breath. Finding no foreign scent, he steadied himself.

  The opening remained.

  Silent. Still.

  He lifted his gaze.

  The vine swayed lightly overhead.

  Arl slid down along it, landing with barely a sound.

  She looked at him.

  “It’s alright, Veyra.”

  Her tone was less a question about what had happened

  and more a quiet confirmation that he was unharmed.

  Arl stepped to the edge and looked down.

  A vertical passage descended beneath her—its curve smooth enough to allow a controlled slide.

  No light reached from within.

  She returned to the campfire, retrieved a length of prepared wood for a torch, and gathered the scattered equipment into her pack. She tightened the straps and slung it over her shoulders—the thickness would serve as padding during descent.

  Veyra stood nearby, watching her movements.

  “Veyra,” she said, looking down at him, “I’ll need to hold you while we slide. Is that alright?”

  He understood her voice, yet hesitation flickered in his posture.

  Arl crouched, leaving a respectful space between them.

  She repeated the gesture she had made the first time they met.

  As though some memory had been gently touched—

  Veyra lowered his head into her palm. His tail moved once, quietly.

  She drew him into her arms, tightening her hold just enough to ensure he neither resisted nor trembled. Adjusting slightly, she settled him against her chest.

  At the mouth of the opening, she paused for a single breath.

  Her pack braced her back. One hand steadied Veyra’s spine.

  Then she shifted her weight forward—

  And slid.

  At first, there was only a faint sensation of weightlessness.

  Stone scraped against her pack with a low, grinding sound. The flame in her torch flickered wildly, shadows stretching into distorted shapes before being swallowed by the dark.

  Wind rushed past her ears.

  She did not scream.

  She did not look back.

  There was only descent.

  Only the gradual gathering of speed.

  Veyra did not struggle.

  His steady breathing pressed against her ribs—

  a reminder that she was not alone.

  The curve of the passage was consistent, long.

  The darkness did not end.

  But neither did it collapse.

  What she felt was not falling.

  It was being guided.

  When the speed began to ease, she prepared. She shifted her weight, letting her feet touch first. Knees bent. The pack absorbed the final impact.

  Loose stones clattered softly. Dust rose, then settled.

  They had stopped.

  No echo followed.

  No tremor.

  No light stirred from the depths.

  The darkness here was whole.

  Arl released Veyra but kept one hand steady on his shoulder until she was certain he stood firm. Only then did she rise.

  Without speaking, she lowered the torch to the faint embers she had preserved within it, shielding them with her palm.

  A thin red glow awakened.

  Flame climbed along the dry fibers.

  Light bloomed between her fingers.

  The darkness withdrew a single step.

  The tunnel was narrow and deep.

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  The walls bore signs of deliberate shaping, though rough textures remained beneath the workmanship.

  As firelight brushed the stone, lines of text emerged.

  Carvings.

  Some strokes were deep. Others worn nearly flat with age.

  Arl moved slowly.

  She caught fragments—

  “Temple Chronicle.”

  “Year of Founding.”

  “Number of Blessing Rites…”

  Further on, the records resembled logs.

  Daily tallies.

  Sequences of offerings.

  Care and succession of the sacred beast.

  The language was not ornate.

  Almost plain.

  Like the recording of necessary, unquestioned routine.

  The torchlight continued forward.

  She stopped.

  At the farthest edge of the wall, two lines remained clear.

  They were the last she could read in full.

  The sacred beast has ceased.

  The hall shall return to the forest.

  The carving was steady. Precise.

  Arl reached out, tracing the grooves with her fingertips. The stone was cold, the lines firm and deliberate.

  She understood the words.

  She did not linger on them.

  She simply committed them to memory.

  When the flame shifted away, the lines vanished back into shadow.

  She turned and walked on.

  The passage opened abruptly.

  A vast cavern lay beyond.

  Multiple corridors converged here, branching outward like veins.

  Fire basins were set into the walls, flames burning steadily and casting a dark red glow across the stone.

  The ceiling was low—just enough for a grown man to pass upright.

  The pressure was subtle, yet impossible to ignore.

  The surrounding walls were carved as well.

  But unlike before—

  Above each corridor entrance stood an independent stone stele.

  The inscriptions there were refined. Balanced.

  Not logs.

  Not records.

  The language of theology.

  The firelight danced across them, as though waiting for a direction to be chosen.

  Arl approached each in turn.

  She could not read them fully.

  But she did not stop.

  She observed.

  Within the strokes lay patterns—

  repeated curves, consistent angles, recurring structures.

  A skeleton of language.

  She traced the edges of the carvings with light, committing shapes to memory. Comparing them with the fragments she had recognized earlier.

  Not deciphering.

  Only assembling.

  At last, she stopped before one stele.

  At its center, two characters stood clearer than the rest.

  —Heart of the Beast.

  The flame lingered there.

  Then she turned and entered that corridor.

  The walls remained inscribed.

  She no longer studied them.

  Intuition guided her now.

  Ahead—

  Was where she needed to go.

  The corridor ended in a circular chamber.

  The space was not large.

  The arched ceiling pressed low. Sound had nowhere to escape.

  At the center of the floor, concentric circles were carved—fine and precise. Like tree rings. Like ripples frozen upon water.

  Between the rings were smaller circular nodes, arranged deliberately.

  Arl looked up.

  Small stones slid from above, tapping softly against the floor.

  The ceiling bore similar circular engravings, mirroring those below.

  She walked forward, gaze still lifted—

  Suddenly—

  Veyra stepped across her path.

  She stumbled slightly.

  “Veyra?”

  He did not move aside.

  Instead, he nudged her arm, guiding her gaze ahead.

  There—

  The circle in the floor was broken.

  An opening yawned where stone had fallen away.

  A massive slab lay nearby, jagged at the edges.

  This was no design.

  It was fracture.

  The void beneath was deep and sightless.

  Arl exhaled quietly.

  Her focus and curiosity had nearly made her forget her footing.

  She chastised herself under her breath, then steadied.

  Veyra remained beside her.

  She reached down and patted his head.

  “Thank you, Veyra.”

  Her voice expanded gently within the chamber, then settled.

  She moved around the gap and approached the fallen slab.

  Dust coated its surface.

  She brushed it away. Fine particles drifted through the firelight.

  She brought the torch closer.

  Words were carved upon it.

  Ten become one.

  Prayer begins.

  Her gaze caught the word ten.

  A memory stirred.

  She straightened and began counting the smaller circular nodes on the floor.

  One.

  Two.

  Six.

  Ten.

  Exactly ten.

  At the far edge, she noticed lines of carefully arranged theological script partially concealed by soil.

  A prayer?

  She raised the torch. Light slid along the arc.

  The carvings here were more refined. More restrained.

  She stood at the threshold, aligning the repeated symbols in her mind. Attempting to read them felt awkward.

  Not because of the words themselves—

  But because she had once heard countless prayers in Anda, following her grandmother into places of devotion.

  Those were melodies.

  Not sentences.

  She tried to recite the text in her grandmother’s melody.

  Her voice spread beneath the low arch.

  No echo.

  Only breath magnified.

  No—this melody did not fit the text. She was guessing blindly. It would not work.

  She rubbed her temple in frustration.

  And then—

  The memory surfaced.

  The old man’s voice by the campfire.

  Child, do not go.

  No hardship outweighs the worth of living.

  Arl whispered the memory aloud.

  And then—

  The song.

  Yes. The song.

  She wove the remembered melody into the carved prayer and spoke softly.

  A moment later—

  The stone beneath her feet trembled almost imperceptibly.

  The torch flickered.

  The outermost ring of the concentric carvings shimmered with the faintest thread of light, extending with her voice—then fading.

  No echo.

  No vibration.

  Only that brief instant—

  As though the chamber had remembered the melody.

  Then stillness returned.

  Arl stopped.

  She did not attempt it again.

  The flame burned steadily in her hand.

  The chamber appeared unchanged.

  As if what had happened were nothing more than an echo left behind by time.

  “Ah… how nostalgic. The sacred beast’s prayer. It has been a long time since I heard it.”

  The voice came from the corridor she had entered.

  Arl’s hand moved to the small blade at her waist.

  Veyra shifted into a defensive stance, eyes fixed on the entrance.

  From the darkness emerged an elderly man, white-haired, dressed in the vestments of a temple shaman.

  “Girl,” he asked slowly, “where have you come from?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  Her reply was low.

  She did not trust the presence before her.

  He wore a shaman’s attire—

  Yet he did not carry a shaman’s familiarity.

  The chamber fell silent.

  Firelight flickered. Their shadows stretched long upon the stone.

  Neither looked away.

  Veyra exhaled low, fur bristling.

  The old man stood still, gaze calm but unyielding.

  The air tightened.

  After a moment, as though concluding that a lone woman and a young beast posed no immediate threat, he chuckled softly.

  “My apologies,” he said, tone easing slightly. “Calling you ‘girl’ was crude of me.”

  He tilted his head, the smile lingering.

  “But an uninvited guest entering another’s domain cannot expect perfect courtesy, can she?”

  Arl did not answer.

  “Ah, there is no need for alarm. I am—”

  He paused. One hand lifted slightly, as if inviting her to lower her guard. Yet his eyes were sharp as blades.

  “My name is… Olde.”

  His voice was deep. Weighted with years.

  “I once guarded the prayer chamber of the sacred beast.”

  Arl’s brow tightened.

  “Guarded? You are not the shaman of this place.”

  Her tone was even—yet edged.

  Olde inclined his head.

  “I once was… But now, I am only a keeper of memory.”

  His gaze drifted toward the concentric circles at the chamber’s center, as though seeing them illuminated by something unseen.

  Veyra gave a low growl.

  Arl did not retreat.

  “You touched the prayer,” Olde said, voice softening with something almost like nostalgia. “Child… for decades, no one has awakened its lingering resonance as you have.”

  Arl tightened her grip on the blade.

  She felt it then—

  The melody.

  The chamber.

  The old man.

  All of it watching her.

  Waiting—

  For a choice.

  But a melody remembered can still stir what remains.

  that silence was intentional.