The trees thinned without warning, and the dense foliage gave way to crumbling stone paths. Ashem brushed aside a branch and froze. Before them lay the remnants of an ancient city, swallowed by roots and silence. Moss clung to shattered archways, and the skeletal remains of great buildings rose like petrified giants caught mid-collapse.

  The wind shifted, carrying the scent of stone dust and distant rain.

  He stepped forward cautiously. The architecture was unlike anything he'd ever seen—tall columns etched with geometric grooves, stone lintels adorned with abstract reliefs. Some of the structures reminded him of Varashi’s tiered rooftops and others bore the curving lines found in Zaruth’s seaports. But here, the forms were rawer, more primal. Ashem realized this place was older than either.

  A wide avenue opened before them, leading toward a sunken plaza at the heart of the city. Shattered buildings leaned inward as though drawn toward the center—toward something they could not ignore.

  It stood untouched.

  A single obsidian obelisk, streaked with golden veins, jutted from the middle of the plaza like a needle piercing time itself. Its cap gleamed faintly in the clouded daylight—polished gold catching hints of a sun that refused to shine. Down its sides, rows of precisely carved Etzari script showed no sign of age.

  Ashem approached, his voice hushed. “Another teaching?”

  Sahira stepped beside him, eyes tracing the ancient lines. She placed her hand gently on the black stone. “You get what you give,” she murmured.

  A shuffle of feet. A sharp sound of rock clattering.

  From the ruined buildings around the plaza, figures began to emerge—barefoot and silent at first. Skins smeared with ash or pigment, wearing pieced-together garments of cloth and leather, their faces hidden behind crudely made masks. They held staffs, spears, and jagged blades made from scavenged parts.

  They said nothing at first, only watched.

  Ashem’s fingers instinctively brushed his belt. “Savages,” he muttered under his breath.

  The largest among them stepped forward, barked something sharp and rhythmic in a language Ashem had never heard. Another figure echoed it, circling to the right. Then another—left.

  Sahira raised her hand slowly. “We don’t want trouble,” she said gently. “You can let us go. This doesn’t have to happen.” Her voice carried a soft undertone—Resonance woven into the phrasing, a subtle coaxing hum beneath the words.

  The strangers kept walking. Slow steps. Encircling.

  Ashem’s heart pounded. He could feel the weight of the obelisk behind him like a wall, the sky pressing low with leaden clouds.

  One of the masked men grunted and stepped closer.

  Too close.

  With a sudden motion, Ashem pulled a long, curved dagger from beneath his cloak.

  The movement was instinctual, but controlled. Sahira’s eyes caught it—surprise flickering, not at the weapon, but at the way he held it. Fear rippled across his features, yes—but not panic. It was a fear familiar with confrontation.

  But the moment the blade gleamed in the air, everything changed.

  Shouts erupted. The circle tightened. Spears lowered.

  “No—” Sahira began, eyes wide, stepping between them. But it was too late.

  The air seemed to compress. Ashem clutched his dagger tighter, but then saw their odds—more than a dozen now, all advancing, too many, too fast.

  “Vel tharan dai,” Sahira whispered. A phrase Ashem couldn't yet understand.

  Two men lunged toward her, arms extended. Four came for him, staffs ready. He braced for combat.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  They struck—not to kill, but to overwhelm. Ashem could only throw a stab in the air before one of his assailants struck his arm from behind, breaking it and throwing his dagger away. Rough hands shoved him to the ground as he shouted in pain. He hit the cracked stone hard. Ropes cinched around his wrists. He couldn’t see Sahira, nor hear her resist, and feared they had rendered her unconscious.

  They tore open his satchel. Ashem tried to twist away but was held fast. He watched in horror as his only hope, the golden sphere, was snatched from one of its pockets. Ashem shouted.

  Another figure barked an order.

  A sack slammed down over his head. Darkness.

  They were dragged through the plaza like cargo, their wrists bound, their heads wrapped in rough sacks that muffled the world into shadow and noise. Ashem stumbled over the broken obsidian, unable to see, barely able to breathe. The floor scraped against his knees and palms like jagged ice, biting through his skin with every forced step.

  Then they stopped.

  Rough hands shoved him forward, and he slammed against the ground. His left arm twisted under his chest—sharp pain burst through it, and he let out a strangled cry.

  “Sahira?” he called, his voice tight with pain.

  Silence.

  A heavy boot thudded into his ribs. He coughed, folded inward. Someone began rifling through his robe, yanking pouches, checking seams. Another was pulling at his boots, wrenching them off with no care for his bruised ankle.

  “Sahira!” he croaked again, voice cracking.

  A whisper, close and sharp, cut through the chaos: “Shut up and listen.”

  He froze.

  The air was thick with tension. Distant voices—gruff, guttural—rose in volume as the captors began shouting at one another in their unknown tongue. The words turned to snarls. Something metallic clattered to the ground near Ashem, bouncing across the floor with a crystalline ring. A second later, a dull object struck the stone too—wood? Stone?

  He shifted, trying to crawl toward the sound.

  But before he could move more than a handspan, hands gripped his tunic and yanked him backward. He tumbled, landing hard atop something—someone.

  Sahira grunted under his weight. “Stop… and listen, you stubborn mule,” she hissed.

  Then he heard it.

  Beneath the yelling, beyond the scuffling boots and jangling of gear—a hum. Soft. Low. Resonant. Like a string vibrating beneath the world. It pulsed through the obsidian floor, into his bones.

  “What is that?” he whispered.

  “The artifact,” Sahira murmured. “It’s charging. The gold veins and the obsidian—it’s drawing from the plaza itself.”

  The hum stabilized. Clear. Singular. Like a bell holding its final note. Yet the assailants paid it no mind, still locked in their loud disputes.

  “We have to activate it if we want out of this one.”

  “How?” he rasped.

  “Match the vibration. With your voice.”

  He blinked beneath the sack. “What?”

  “Focus. Let it guide you.”

  Ashem swallowed and pressed his ear to the ground. He hummed low, adjusting his pitch until the interference stopped—the moment the two frequencies met cleanly, something shifted. It was as if the floor welcomed the sound, wrapping it in golden resonance.

  “Now,” Sahira said, “pronounce: ‘Asha elar’kai.’”

  “Asha elar’kai,” he whispered, holding the pitch.

  The artifact sang in response.

  A shimmering, crystalline chime pierced through his senses. Light bloomed behind his eyes. Even with the sack still over his head, he saw.

  Turquoise currents danced through the air—threads of light arcing between every being in the plaza. They flowed from body to body, pooling, dividing, converging like glowing rivers. Some stretched into the sky, others spiraled into the stone. It was like watching a pond of ripples in three dimensions—only he was inside the pond.

  He moved slightly. The ripples shifted. He saw how the currents responded to each motion—his, Sahira’s, theirs. Every decision a pulse. Every movement a cause. Every reaction a wave.

  “You see it too?” he asked.

  “I do,” Sahira answered. Her voice was different now—focused, reverent.

  “What is this?”

  “The Stream,” she said. “Every path we didn’t take. Every one we still can. Look—see the moment that could’ve changed everything.”

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He watched the currents fork—at the moment he pulled the dagger. Dozens of ripples, crashing into what came after. That was the moment. That was the hinge.

  “I found it.”

  Sahira began speaking again in Etzari, the words brushing the edges of his consciousness like ancient bells:

  “Famar’el zarekh dai.”

  As she spoke, the currents snapped into order. The turquoise threads shimmered, crystalizing into a fractal that spun around them—perfect, infinite, collapsing inward. A tunnel of radiant symmetry. Then, a crack like the splitting of glass.

  They were back.

  The plaza.

  Same dust. Same sun. Same footsteps behind ruined walls.

  “We don’t want trouble,” she said gently. “You can let us go. This doesn’t have to happen.” Her voice carried a soft undertone—Resonance woven into the phrasing, a subtle coaxing hum beneath the words.

  The strangers kept walking. Slow steps. Encircling.

  Ashem’s heart pounded. He could feel the weight of the obelisk behind him like a wall, the sky pressing low with leaden clouds.

  One of the masked men grunted and stepped closer.

  Too close.

  But this time… Ashem did not reach for his blade.

  Instead, Sahira stepped forward, hands raised, slow and deliberate. She pulled something from her satchel—Ashem couldn’t see what it was, only the warm pulse of light it gave off in the currents.

  The muggers stretched their necks in interest.

  “Esha Vel’dra,” Sahira spoke again—three sharp syllables light as smoke.

  Her palm lit with gold. So did the strangers.

  And in a blink—they vanished.

  So did the pain in Ashem’s arm.

  He stood in the center of the plaza again—no ropes, no blindfold.

  Only silence. The obelisk behind them still humming faintly.

  And Sahira, arms lowered, exhaling slow. She turned to him, smiled faintly.

  “Now that,” she said, “is resonance.”