"Leave," the dragon ordered the humans.
The leisure area, prepared at Neftraya's command, was a hidden oasis in the temple gardens: a pavilion of white linen draped over sandstone columns carved with protective hieroglyphs, surrounded by a pool of water scented with lotus and myrrh.
The servants—a group of eunuchs and maids dressed in pleated skirts and beaded necklaces—finished arranging the final offerings: ripe fruits in papyrus baskets, jars of date wine, and a smoking incense burner. They bowed nervously, whispering prayers to some god to appease what they saw as an incarnate deity.
Kharvathar felt their fear; in a way, it pleased him. He even considered ordering them to stay. He remembered that the fear of small beings had once been a great satisfaction.
'But the woman looks at me as if she desires me,' he thought. The priestess's fear was expressed in a strange way.
Now alone, Kharvathar looked at himself more closely. His body was now that of a tall, muscular man; his gray skin had turned brown, and hair grew on his arms. He observed the red robe the woman's servants had dressed him in back at the temple. He pulled and tore the fabric easily, leaving himself bare.
He looked at the pool and entered. The cold water touched his skin, prickling it. He sat against the edge, the water reaching his chest. He breathed and closed his eyes.
"The path is within me." He repeated inwardly what Neftraya had told him.
For the first time since awakening in this body, he allowed himself not to fight the sensation. He inhaled slowly, feeling the air enter his mortal lungs—fragile, yet strangely precise. He exhaled, and with the breath came a nearly imperceptible wisp of black smoke that dissolved on the surface.
He relaxed his legs and drifted from the edge. He opened his arms slowly, palms upward, and let his body float. The water supported him effortlessly.
Now was the moment to confront himself.
First, he visualized his own heart—not the flesh organ beating in his chest now, but the true core, a hungry amalgam of energy and pulse that existed even before the gods learned their names. It was ravenous chaos.
'Rise and destroy,' the ancient voice returned, as if trying to stop him from thinking.
'Burn them, Kharvathar.' Kharvathar felt himself sinking, but not into the pool's water. His body was light yet pressed at the same time. He maintained his breathing.
"You are still here," the voice whispered again. "You have not been lost in the flesh. You have merely… clothed yourself in it."
"Who are you?" the dragon asked within himself. Uncomfortable silence. Kharvathar asked again. Nothing.
"Tell me the meaning," he demanded.
"You!" This time it was an abrupt, powerful shout. Then, suddenly, his mind carried him back through eras. Fire, destruction. Small beings, spiritual beings, gods. His creator.
The water around him began to warm slightly. Small bubbles rose from where his fingers touched the surface, bursting with the scent of sulfur and burnt myrrh. Lotus petals swirled in slow eddies, as if drawn by an invisible force.
Kharvathar opened his eyes. His vertical pupils dilated until they nearly swallowed the yellow of his irises. For an instant, it seemed to him that the only statue of the god watching over the place looked directly at him. The reed torches swayed as though a great wind had entered the room.
"I am not a prisoner of this form," he said, firmer now. "I am the dragon who wears the skin of a man. And this skin… will learn to roar."
Then he closed his eyes again, determined to find himself.