Aria walked through Duskmere with the pendant hidden beneath her shirt, the silver flame resting just over her heart. Every step she took felt different now. The streets were the same—gray and cracked, filled with cold wind and sharp stares—but she had changed.
The mark on her palm had faded again, but she could still feel its warmth beneath her skin. Like a second heartbeat.
She kept to side alleys, away from the guards and crowds. Her mind raced with questions. Who had left that pendant for her? Who had built that secret room, hidden beneath the city? And most of all—why her?
She stopped at an old bakery that hadn't baked in years. The door hung crooked, but the back room was dry. Aria had stayed here before. She slipped inside, settled onto a dusty mat in the corner, and pulled the pendant out.
It shimmered softly in the dark. Not magic she could see, but something deeper. Something alive.
She held it tight.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
No answer.
But then—
Warmth spread through her chest. The pendant glowed faintly. A memory stirred.
She saw a mountain lit by stars.
A girl standing on a cliff, her eyes full of fire.
And flames rising—not to destroy—but to protect.
The image faded.
Aria blinked. Was that… her?
She had never left Duskmere. Never seen a mountain. But the girl in the vision had felt like her. Only stronger. Braver.
She slipped the pendant back under her shirt and stood.
"I need answers," she said aloud.
She couldn't go to the guards. Couldn't trust the other orphans, either. But there was someone—
Old Marlow.
He ran the junk stall near the South Wall. Most thought he was just another drunk, muttering to himself and selling rusted tools. But Aria had seen him reading strange books. Books with symbols that matched the ones on the tree.
If anyone knew about the Oracle… it was him.
---
Marlow's stall sat under a sagging canopy, half-covered in snow. Tools hung from nails. Cracked lanterns. Broken swords. Things no one wanted.
He was hunched over a crate, sorting nails into tiny glass jars. When Aria approached, he didn't look up.
"You're early," he muttered. "Didn't expect you until the sun fell."
"I didn't say I was coming."
"Didn't have to."
Now he looked at her.
His eyes were sharp, clearer than they had any right to be.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" he asked. "The mark."
Aria froze.
Slowly, she held out her hand.
Nothing showed. But Marlow nodded anyway.
"It comes and goes," he said. "It's not for the world to see. Only the flame knows when to wake."
"You know what it is?" Aria asked.
"I know stories," he said. "Enough to be afraid."
"I'm not afraid."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then you're a fool."
He pointed to a small stool. "Sit. I'll tell you what I know. But when I'm done—you'll wish you'd never asked."
Aria sat.
And Marlow began to speak of Eldrid—the fallen god of fire. Of the Oracles who once lit the sky with golden flames. Of a time when their voices shaped mountains, and their visions kept kingdoms from ruin.
"They were wiped out," he said. "Every last one. Or so we thought. But the flame doesn't die. It waits. It hides."
"And now it's me," Aria whispered.
He nodded slowly.
"The Oracle has returned."