The temple ruins at Mount Yurei were older than any god Aki had yet encountered.
He stepped cautiously across cracked stone, Hoshikiri's lantern casting long, dancing shadows along the broken walls. Every breath he took felt watched. Not by deities or spirits, but by the weight of memory itself—echoes scorched into the air.
"These flames were once sacred," Hoshikiri whispered. "Lit only by the hands of those who bore the Celestial Thread."
Aki glanced at the altar at the far end of the chamber. A brazier sat cold and empty. Beside it, a small pedestal held a scroll bound in gold thread.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"A shrine," she said, "but also a mirror. If you light the Whispering Flame, it will show you what lies ahead... or what still haunts your past."
He stepped closer, heart racing. The pendant pulsed in rhythm with the silence.
As his fingers brushed the scroll, the brazier erupted in ghostly blue fire.
The flames roared to life, and with them—images.
A battlefield littered with the fallen. Stars falling like rain. Aki, older and alone, standing at the edge of a broken world.
"No," he muttered. "This can't be the future…"
"But it might be," the flame whispered in many voices—his mother's, the gods', even his own.
Hoshikiri grabbed his shoulder. "Don't let it take you. It shows what you fear, not what must be."
Aki looked into the fire one last time. Then, slowly, he closed the scroll and stepped away.
The flame faded.
The chamber was still once more.
"I won't be ruled by fear," he said quietly.
"No," Hoshikiri agreed. "But you must carry it."
Outside, the winds of fate stirred once more.
—To be continued—