The Whispering Flame

ees twisted toward the sky like claws, branches crackling in the wind. Every now and then, thunder groaned across the clouds, and her name floated through it again-so faint she migh

aring in a sudden burst, and from behind the arch, a low, otherworldly hum began to rise-like a thousand voices singing in a forgotten tongue. Liora stumbled back, heart pounding. "What are you?" she whispered to the mark on her hand. The wind died instantly. The symbols dimmed. Silence fell. Then, from the shadows behind the arch, a figure emerged. Cloaked, tall, and faceless beneath a deep hood. Liora froze. "You shouldn't be here," the figure said. The voice was low and layered, like several voices speaking in unison. "I didn't mean to-" she started. "You were drawn," it said, stepping closer. "The Flame calls to its heir." "Heir?" she echoed, her voice barely a whisper. The figure raised its head slightly. She couldn't see its eyes, but she felt them-hot and heavy on her soul. "The mark is not a gift. It is a key." "A key to what?" "To what lies beyond the seal. To the truth your people buried long ago." Liora's pulse raced. She took a shaky step back. "I don't understand. What truth? What seal?" The figure tilted its head. "You will. When the time comes. But be warned-there are others who seek the key. And they will kill to keep it hidden." A bolt of lightning cracked through the sky, striking a tree nearby. The ground trembled. The arch glowed once more, then slowly faded into darkness. When Liora looked again, the figure was gone. Just the wind. The trees. The echo of her own breath. She didn't