INNER DESTRUCTION

The wind howled through the stone corridors of the Temple of Stone, carrying with it the scent of rain and something older-something burned. Elira sat curled in the corner of her narrow cell, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her amber eyes wide open despite the darkness. The others were asleep. She could hear their steady breathing in the long dormitory chamber. But she didn't sleep anymore. Not since the voice began.

"Let me out..."

It came like a breath, soft and slithering. Not from outside the walls, nor through the cracks in the floor. It came from inside her. From her ribs, her bones-her very soul.

She bit her lip, hard, until she tasted blood. The pain grounded her. The voice faded, for now.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered to herself.

But her mind remained alert, like a lantern in the storm. Outside, thunder growled low, echoing through the mountains. She slipped from her cot and tiptoed down the hall toward the upper cloister. The moonlight poured through the archways, pale and blue, illuminating the stone floor and casting long shadows across the garden.

The roses had bloomed late this year-stunted, frostbitten things with gray petals. The priestesses called it a sign of divine silence.

Elira called it something else.

She sat on the edge of the fountain, staring at her reflection in the water. A face too sharp for beauty, hair like dying fire, and eyes that glowed faintly even in the dark. Her skin had begun to feel strange-hot, like it was always on the verge of fever.

The voice had first come on her twelfth birthday. That was five years ago. And with each passing year, it grew louder.

"You are mine. You were always mine."

She flinched. Her fingers dipped into the water. It hissed. She pulled her hand back in shock-steam rose from the surface where her skin had touched it.

"No... no, no," she muttered.

"Elira."

She turned quickly. Sarthos stood beneath the arch, wrapped in his thick black cloak. His white beard gleamed in the moonlight, and his eyes-sharp and dark-watched her with unreadable calm.

"You shouldn't be out here."

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "The voice..."

His expression didn't change, but he stepped forward, slow and measured, as if not to startle a wild creature.

"It spoke again?"

She nodded.

"It's growing stronger."

Sarthos sighed. "It was bound to. The signs are aligning. The solstice is near."

"You said it was a curse," Elira whispered. "You said it would pass."

"I said it could be contained," he replied. "If you are strong enough."

She looked back at the water, which still smoked faintly where her hand had touched it. Her heart pounded. She felt it now-not fear, but something worse. Anticipation. The fire within her liked this. It liked being near power.

"Why me?" she asked.

"There's something you must see," Sarthos said, ignoring the question. "Come."

He led her through the back halls of the temple, down stairs she hadn't even known existed. Deeper than the catacombs, where the air turned thick and hot, the stones pulsed with faint heat. He opened a rusted gate, and behind it lay a hidden chamber. The walls were blackened, as if fire had scorched them long ago. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it-a book wrapped in chains.

"What is this place?"

"Where truth is hidden," Sarthos said. "Where the Temple keeps what it fears."

He stepped forward and unlatched the chains with a flick of his fingers. The book groaned open.

Elira's breath caught.

There, painted in ink and ash, was an image. A figure cloaked in flame, eyes like stars, arms outstretched. Around him, cities burned. Mountains crumbled. Skies cracked with fire.

"Kharith," she whispered.

"The Worldburner," Sarthos confirmed. "He was not killed. Not entirely."

Elira turned to him, heart hammering. "What do you mean?"

"Long ago, when the sorcerer-kings fought him, they could not destroy him. So they tore his soul into fragments and locked them away... one, they say, was hidden in the blood of a child. A vessel."

She stared at him, unwilling to understand.

"Do you know what your name means, Elira?" he asked gently. "In the old tongue? It means 'spark reborn.'"

"No," she breathed. "That can't be true."

"It is," he said, and there was no pity in his voice. "You are the final fragment."

Her knees gave out. She sank to the stone floor, shaking.

"This is why the voice comes," Sarthos said. "He stirs. He wants control."

Tears ran hot down her cheeks. She clutched her arms, feeling the heat pulsing through her veins.

"What do I do?" she whispered. "How do I stop it?"

"You don't," he said. "You learn to master it. Or it masters you."

He closed the book with a thud that echoed through the chamber. "Tomorrow, we begin."

To be continued...............

The wind howled through the stone corridors of the Temple of Stone, carrying with it the scent of rain and something older-something burned. Elira sat curled in the corner of her narrow cell, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her amber eyes wide open despite the darkness. The others were asleep. She could hear their steady breathing in the long dormitory chamber. But she didn't sleep anymore. Not since the voice began.

"Let me out..."

It came like a breath, soft and slithering. Not from outside the walls, nor through the cracks in the floor. It came from inside her. From her ribs, her bones-her very soul.

She bit her lip, hard, until she tasted blood. The pain grounded her. The voice faded, for now.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered to herself.

But her mind remained alert, like a lantern in the storm. Outside, thunder growled low, echoing through the mountains. She slipped from her cot and tiptoed down the hall toward the upper cloister. The moonlight poured through the archways, pale and blue, illuminating the stone floor and casting long shadows across the garden.

The roses had bloomed late this year-stunted, frostbitten things with gray petals. The priestesses called it a sign of divine silence.

Elira called it something else.

She sat on the edge of the fountain, staring at her reflection in the water. A face too sharp for beauty, hair like dying fire, and eyes that glowed faintly even in the dark. Her skin had begun to feel strange-hot, like it was always on the verge of fever.

The voice had first come on her twelfth birthday. That was five years ago. And with each passing year, it grew louder.

"You are mine. You were always mine."

She flinched. Her fingers dipped into the water. It hissed. She pulled her hand back in shock-steam rose from the surface where her skin had touched it.

"No... no, no," she muttered.

"Elira."

She turned quickly. Sarthos stood beneath the arch, wrapped in his thick black cloak. His white beard gleamed in the moonlight, and his eyes-sharp and dark-watched her with unreadable calm.

"You shouldn't be out here."

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "The voice..."

His expression didn't change, but he stepped forward, slow and measured, as if not to startle a wild creature.

"It spoke again?"

She nodded.

"It's growing stronger."

Sarthos sighed. "It was bound to. The signs are aligning. The solstice is near."

"You said it was a curse," Elira whispered. "You said it would pass."

"I said it could be contained," he replied. "If you are strong enough."

She looked back at the water, which still smoked faintly where her hand had touched it. Her heart pounded. She felt it now-not fear, but something worse. Anticipation. The fire within her liked this. It liked being near power.

"Why me?" she asked.

"There's something you must see," Sarthos said, ignoring the question. "Come."

He led her through the back halls of the temple, down stairs she hadn't even known existed. Deeper than the catacombs, where the air turned thick and hot, the stones pulsed with faint heat. He opened a rusted gate, and behind it lay a hidden chamber. The walls were blackened, as if fire had scorched them long ago. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it-a book wrapped in chains.

"What is this place?"

"Where truth is hidden," Sarthos said. "Where the Temple keeps what it fears."

He stepped forward and unlatched the chains with a flick of his fingers. The book groaned open.

Elira's breath caught.

There, painted in ink and ash, was an image. A figure cloaked in flame, eyes like stars, arms outstretched. Around him, cities burned. Mountains crumbled. Skies cracked with fire.

"Kharith," she whispered.

"The Worldburner," Sarthos confirmed. "He was not killed. Not entirely."

Elira turned to him, heart hammering. "What do you mean?"

"Long ago, when the sorcerer-kings fought him, they could not destroy him. So they tore his soul into fragments and locked them away... one, they say, was hidden in the blood of a child. A vessel."

She stared at him, unwilling to understand.

"Do you know what your name means, Elira?" he asked gently. "In the old tongue? It means 'spark reborn.'"

"No," she breathed. "That can't be true."

"It is," he said, and there was no pity in his voice. "You are the final fragment."

Her knees gave out. She sank to the stone floor, shaking.

"This is why the voice comes," Sarthos said. "He stirs. He wants control."

Tears ran hot down her cheeks. She clutched her arms, feeling the heat pulsing through her veins.

"What do I do?" she whispered. "How do I stop it?"

"You don't," he said. "You learn to master it. Or it masters you."

He closed the book with a thud that echoed through the chamber. "Tomorrow, we begin."

To be continued...............