The courtyard was still shaking.
Dust drifted from the temple ceiling like falling ash. The glowing white fissure—once a clean wound across the floor—had sealed into a thin silver scar, pulsing faintly, as if deciding whether to open again.
Manraj stood at its edge, chest tight, breath sharp.
The fire inside him hadn't settled. It paced. It prowled.
Zoya was pale, one hand still pressed to the stone where she'd slammed her Silence down. The faint shimmer around her fingertips hadn't fully faded.
Azhar stood a few feet away, shadows wound around his ankles like restless animals.
No one spoke.
Because something was… wrong.
Not with the temple.
With the air.
It felt thicker. Too still. Like the world was waiting for someone to make a mistake.
Manraj finally broke the silence.
"What was that?"
Azhar didn't answer immediately.
He watched the silver scar like he expected something to crawl out of it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"A memory that wasn't supposed to breathe."
Zoya swallowed.
"Memories don't grow eyes."
Azhar's jaw tightened.
"In our world? They do."
A gust of cold wind knifed through the ruins, carrying the faintest whisper—too faint to understand, too close to ignore. Manraj's fire flared in response.
Azhar stepped forward.
The shadows responded instantly.
They rose behind him like a second spine.
But Manraj noticed something else.
The shadows… hesitated.
Not out of fear.
Out of recognition.
Zoya noticed it too.
"That thing in the crack," she murmured. "It reacted to him."
Azhar didn't deny it.
"It should. I was there the night they opened it."
Manraj's stomach dropped.
"The ritual," he whispered.
Azhar finally looked at him—really looked, like he was bracing himself.
"You were never meant to see that memory again."
Manraj took a step closer.
"Then tell me what it was."
Azhar didn't move.
Zoya turned toward him sharply.
"He deserves answers."
Azhar exhaled, shadows curling like distressed smoke.
"You want answers?" he said quietly.
"Fine."
He pointed at the sealed scar on the ground.
"That wasn't a monster."
Another whisper slithered across the stone.
Zoya stiffened.
Manraj's fire throbbed.
Azhar finished:
"That was the part of him they tried to erase."
Silence slammed down between them—heavy and impossible.
Manraj's pulse spiked.
"Erase… what exactly?"
Azhar looked almost pained.
"The element that chose you before fire did."
Zoya blinked.
"That's impossible. Nobody has two—"
"They don't," Azhar said.
"But he did."
The crack pulsed again, faint but alive.
Manraj suddenly felt cold.
"What element?"
Azhar didn't answer.
The temple did.
A breath—soft and wrong—escaped from beneath the stone.
Zoya dragged Manraj back.
Azhar's shadows snapped upward defensively.
The scar glowed once…
twice…
Then dimmed again.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Zoya whispered, "It's not gone."
Azhar didn't take his eyes off the scar.
"It won't be. Not until it remembers everything."
Manraj's skin prickled.
"Remembers… what?"
Azhar finally turned to him.
The truth landed like a blade.
"The night you weren't the one who was supposed to survive."
The ground shook once—like something under it laughed.
Zoya grabbed Manraj's hand.
"Move," she whispered. "We need to get out—"
A crack rang out behind them.
They spun.
The temple's entrance—where Azhar had first appeared—began to distort.
Like heatwave air.
Like reality warping.
A tall silhouette stood within the distortions.
Not Azhar.
Not a creature.
Someone else.
Azhar's face drained of color.
"No," he whispered. "Not now."
"Who is that?" Zoya breathed.
Manraj couldn
't answer.
Because the silhouette stepped forward…
and the shadows recoiled from it.
Not out of fear.
Out of loyalty.
Azhar whispered one word—broken, quiet, hollow:
"…Father."