Dawn came gray, thick with dust and memory.
When Nakala and Iri'okan left the temple, the desert no longer looked endless — it looked asleep.
Mountains shimmered faintly on the horizon, not real, but recalled. The air vibrated with half-formed song, like the earth itself was trying to remember a melody long forgotten.
They traveled in silence, the only sound the soft grind of sand beneath their boots.
Nakala felt strange — lighter, but also unsteady. Her breaths no longer fogged the air; instead, the world seemed to inhale when she did, exhale when she stopped.
> "You're changing," Esh'ra murmured from deep within.
"Your rhythm has begun to rewrite its surroundings."
"Rewriting what?"
> "Reality itself, perhaps," the goddess replied calmly. "Or perhaps only your reflection within it."
Nakala frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
> "It's not meant to. You are neither mortal nor divine anymore, Nakala. You are the echo between."
---
By noon, they reached the ruins of a city half-buried in pale sand — tall, sun-bleached towers twisted like burnt reeds.
The wind whispered through broken windows, carrying faint notes that rose and fell like a hymn sung by forgotten throats.
"What place is this?" Nakala asked.
Iri'okan's face tightened. "Ruh'nara. Once the capital of the North. The first city to be unwritten."
"Unwritten?"
He nodded. "The N'gai devoured its name first. Then its meaning. The people stayed, but no one remembered who they were. They walked until their bodies stopped, and the city turned to ash."
> "Histinak lingered here," Esh'ra said softly. "Strong enough to resist decay. That is why the song remains."
---
They entered what had once been a courtyard.
The air shimmered faintly, and the sand beneath their feet hummed.
Then, faintly, a voice called out:
"Don't move."
A figure emerged from behind a broken column — tall, cloaked in layered gray robes stitched with runes that glowed faintly blue. His hair was bound with copper threads, and his eyes — pale gold — watched them with weary calm.
"I can hear your rhythm from half a league away," he said. "And it's wrong."
Iri'okan drew his blade instinctively. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "A historian, perhaps. A wanderer of dying songs. I keep what little remains when the world forgets itself."
He looked at Nakala then — not with suspicion, but recognition.
"You carry two voices," he said quietly. "One human. One that should not exist."
> "He sees me," Esh'ra whispered sharply.
"That is impossible."
Nakala steadied herself. "You know my name?"
The man smiled faintly. "Of course I do. You are Esh'ra's echo — the Goddess Who Devoured Herself. The world has been waiting for your second breath."
---
They followed him through the ruins to a sunken amphitheater.
At its center burned a small flame — pale, steady, untouched by the wind. Around it were etched circles filled with spiraling script.
"This is where I record the remnants," the Wanderer said. "Fragments of Histinak too faint for mortals to hold."
Nakala knelt beside the flame. "You use Histinak?"
He nodded. "Everyone does, in their own way. The scholars sing it — turning sound into structure. The warriors forge it into weapons that cut through illusion. The mystics bleed it, trading pieces of memory for brief glimpses of truth."
"And you?"
"I write it," he said. "Each word I remember anchors the rhythm. But lately, even the ink forgets me."
He paused, studying her carefully. "You… don't forget, do you?"
> "No," Esh'ra murmured from within. "She is incapable of it now."
Nakala hesitated. "I don't think I can. But I don't know if that's a gift… or a curse."
The Wanderer smiled sadly. "All memory is a curse. It means you live in what should have ended."
---
As they spoke, the air grew colder.
The ground trembled faintly, the runes around the flame flickering.
The Wanderer raised his hand. "Quiet now. They're listening."
"The N'gai?" Iri'okan asked.
The man shook his head. "No. Something older. Something that remembers the gods themselves."
> "Esh'ra," Nakala whispered inwardly, "what is he talking about?"
> "The Forgotten Choir," said the goddess grimly. "The first voices to sing Histinak before mortals learned its rhythm. They were neither gods nor demons — merely sound given form. When I devoured myself, they went silent. But silence does not last."
The ground split slightly — not violently, but with a hollow sigh.
The flame flickered, then sang — a single note, pure and haunting.
Sand rose in patterns, forming shapes — faces half-formed, eyes of glass and ash.
"They've found you," the Wanderer said, backing away slowly. "You are the key to their return."
Nakala stood, Histinak thrumming beneath her skin. "Then tell me how to stop them."
He met her gaze. "You can't stop what you already started."
> "He speaks truth," Esh'ra whispered. "Every breath you take echoes through the dying rhythms. You awaken what I once silenced."
The ash-voices drifted closer, their faces dissolving, their tones almost pleading — "Remember us."
Nakala took a breath — deep, steady, rhythmic.
The air shivered, bending around her.
Her Histinak pulsed once — and the ash turned to light, scattering like dust.
When it was done, the amphitheater was silent.
The flame flickered weakly, and the Wanderer looked at her with awe and something like fear.
"What did you just do?" he asked.
"I remembered them," Nakala said quietly. "But I didn't bring them back."
---
They camped together that night in the ruins.
The Wanderer tended the small flame while Nakala watched the stars shift and fade above.
Iri'okan sat beside her, silent, but his gaze lingered on her face as if trying to memorize her.
> "You see?" Esh'ra whispered. "This is how it begins. They will all remember you, even when they wish to forget."
"Why?" Nakala asked softly.
> "Because remembrance is the truest form of devotion. And you, my child, are becoming what even I once feared."
---
When the first light of dawn touched the ruins, the Wanderer turned to her.
"There's a city east of here," he said. "Still alive. Still singing. They call it Zerune, the City of Bound Names. If the N'gai's silence is spreading, that's where it will begin."
He looked at her with quiet reverence. "If you truly are Esh'ra's echo, then that city will either worship you… or burn for remembering you."
---
End of Chapter 7