The road to the Temple of Hollow Sky wasn't marked by signposts.
It was marked by absence.
No birdsong.
No breeze.
Even the trees, twisted and blackened as if scorched by forgotten fire, stood silently. Watching.
Li Yun wrapped his cloak tighter around his body as the elevation rose. With each step deeper into the mountains, the pendant at his chest pulsed brighter—warmer. As though guiding him.
Or warning him.
He stopped when he reached the edge of the cliff.
A narrow path carved into stone spiraled down toward a valley cloaked in eternal mist.
There—half-sunken in ash and vines—stood the temple.
The Temple of Hollow Sky.
It looked broken, as if the world itself had tried to forget it.
But Yun didn't turn back.
He took the first step onto the path.
By the time he reached the stone courtyard, the sky had darkened to a bruised purple. The mist curled around him like breath.
Carved into the outer gates was a single phrase:
"Only the heir may enter with memory unburned."
Yun pressed his palm to the seal.
Nothing happened.
Until the pendant pulsed again—this time glowing gold—and the doors shuddered open with a low, groaning rumble.
Inside, the air smelled of ash and memory.
He stepped through.
And wasn't alone.
A man sat cross-legged at the center of the temple's inner hall, draped in layers of grey-and-scarlet robes. His face was lined but calm, his beard trailing to his chest. Strange glowing marks ran up his arms—symbols Yun couldn't read, burning like fire beneath skin.
"You've come," the man said without looking up.
"You're from the Order of the Third Flame?" Yun asked.
The man opened his eyes.
They glowed faintly orange.
"I am the first flame-watcher. I am the keeper of memory. And I have been waiting since your mother fell."
Yun took a cautious step forward.
"My mother—what do you know?"
"Not enough," the watcher replied. "But more than you."
He motioned for Yun to sit.
"You seek power. You seek truth. But before you claim the Flame Sigil's inheritance, you must pay the price."
"What price?"
The man reached behind him and placed a small obsidian bowl between them.
Inside it was a thick grey powder—ash.
"Burn a memory," he said. "Offer it to the gate."
Yun's brow furrowed. "What kind of memory?"
"One that defines you. One that hurts."
Yun looked at the ash.
His chest tightened.
A memory… that hurt?
Too many came at once.
His mother's smile.
Her blood on silk.
His exile.
Lady Shen's trembling kiss on his forehead.
He clenched his jaw.
And slowly reached into his robe.
From inside, he pulled a folded scrap of cloth — the sleeve of the robe his mother had worn the day she died. The last piece he'd kept since he was twelve.
He placed it in the bowl.
And the ash flared.
For a moment, Yun was somewhere else.
Back in the inner courtyard of his childhood.
Rain fell in sheets.
His mother's voice rang through the air—frantic, broken.
"Protect him! Protect the heir!"
Flames. Screams.
Someone dragging him away.
Then—
Darkness.
He gasped as he came back.
The bowl was empty.
The watcher gave a slow nod.
"You have passed the first gate."
"What now?" Yun asked, still breathless.
The watcher stood.
And pointed toward a side door of the temple, shrouded in golden firelight.
"Now you enter the Hall of Trials. There, you will face the Sigil itself."
"And what if I fail?"
The watcher turned away.
"Then your memory won't be the only thing that burns."
Yun stood before the door alone.
The pendant pulsed again—stronger now. Hotter.
But this time, it didn't burn.
It welcomed him.
He reached for the door.
And the flame consumed him.
Far away, in the manor he left behind, Lady Shen stirred from uneasy sleep.
The wind howled through the corridors.
She rose, stepped barefoot to the window.
Her chest ached.
As if something was being ripped from her.
She pressed a hand to her heart.
"Yun…"
But the wind carried no answer.
Only silence.