And in the center of it all stands a ring of figures.
Seven of them. Hooded. Motionless. Draped in robes of black and ember-gold, each one taller than the last. Their faces are hidden in deep shadows, though the firelight should be enough to reveal them. I can’t tell if they’re Daemari or something else. And for one dizzy moment, I wonder if they’re statues. Until the closest one turns its head.
I freeze mid-step.
The door closes behind me. Soft. Final. I’m alone in the center of a room designed for judgment. Of course. I take a breath. Shallow. Quiet. I don’t move any closer than I have to. No one speaks at first. The silence stretches out, long and brittle.
And then one of them leans slightly forward and says, “It stirs.”
Their voice is low. Not raspy—just old. Dusty. Like a forgotten book opening in a sealed library.
Another follows: “It does not burn.”
“It is out of place,” murmurs a third, voice higher, female maybe. “Out of order. Out of flame.”
I can’t tell if they mean me or the fire in the center of the room.
“She walks with a shadow that is not her own.”
“She comes untouched.”
“She comes unknown.”
I clear my throat. “Uh, she’s still right here, by the way.”
The silence that follows is almost amused.
Another voice speaks. This one deeper than the rest. Smooth, careful. “Do you know what you are, anomaly?”
“Human?” I try. “Presumably.” A flicker of something moves through the flames in the braziers. Almost like a laugh, or a wind that doesn’t exist.
“Presumption is dangerous here.”
“Yeah,” I clear my throat, “I got that memo.”
The room hums. Not sound, just pressure. Like something beneath the stone is shifting. Watching.
Another voice: “You crossed into flame without kindling.”
“You do not match the spark.”
“You do not match the ash.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I say, more defensively than I intend. But also, I have no idea what they’re talking about. Maybe I did.
“Intention is not required,” someone whispers. “Only resonance.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “What resonance?”
But they do not answer. They never do. They ask questions, overlapping, never waiting for me to respond:
“Do you dream of fire?”
“Do you ache when it rains?”
“Has your shadow ever spoken back?”
“What the hell—” I start to say, but they press forward.
