The temple did not quiet after Yasmin's burial.

  It grew louder.

  Not in sound.

  In expectation.

  Ardeshir did not sleep.

  He did not weep openly again.

  Instead, he stood before the sacred flame and spoke with calm certainty.

  "My sister was not abandoned," he told the gathered villagers."She was received."

  His voice did not tremble.

  "The light does not fail. It refines."

  People nodded.

  Grief always seeks shape.

  And shape is easier than emptiness.

  Midas watched from the edge of the courtyard.

  He had seen this before.

  Pain reorganizing itself into belief.

  Word spread quickly.

  The man who stood before the fire and did not burn.

  The stranger the flame bent toward.

  The marked one.

  Midas felt the change in the air.

  Where once people avoided him, now they approached cautiously.

  Eyes searching.

  Hope disguised as curiosity.

  He began staying farther from the temple.

  Ardeshir noticed.

  "You should not hide," the priest said gently one evening.

  "I am not hiding."

  "You were present when she passed. The light did not recoil from you."

  "It did not embrace me either."

  Ardeshir smiled faintly.

  "You misunderstand its language."

  Midas studied him.

  "Or you do."

  The priest did not answer.

  He looked thinner now.

  Grief had hollowed him, but it had also sharpened something.

  Certainty.

  Three days later, a woman arrived carrying a boy no older than six.

  The child's skin burned with fever.His breaths are shallow and rapid.

  She fell at Ardeshir's feet.

  "Please," she begged. "The fire. The man."

  Her eyes found Midas immediately.

  Hope is quick to assign meaning.

  Ardeshir hesitated.

  Then he looked toward Midas.

  "Stand with him," the priest said softly.

  Midas did not move.

  "You believe light recognizes endurance," Ardeshir continued. "Then let it prove so."

  "I am not what you think," Midas replied quietly.

  "Then show us what you are."

  The courtyard filled slowly.

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  Villagers gathered in silence.

  The mother approached Midas, tears streaking her face.

  "Please," she whispered. "Just touch him."

  Midas stepped back.

  "I cannot."

  Her face fell.

  "Are you afraid?"

  "Yes," he said honestly.

  She moved closer.

  "My son is already dying."

  He saw it then.

  The same look he had seen in Yasmin.

  Desperation dressed as courage.

  He raised his hands slightly.

  "Do not," he warned.

  But grief does not listen.

  The mother lunged forward — not violently, just urgently — reaching for his wrist.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of his glove.

  Bare skin.

  Contact lasted less than a heartbeat.

  It was enough.

  The change began instantly.

  Not a scream.Not a flash.

  Her skin shimmered.

  Then hardened.

  Gold spread along her fingers, racing up her arm like sunlight turned cruel.

  Her eyes widened.

  She did not curse him.

  She did not scream.

  She only looked confused.

  Then still.

  She froze mid-motion.

  Solid.

  Brilliant.

  Terrible.

  The courtyard fell silent.

  The child slid from her arms onto the stone.

  Crying weakly.

  Ardeshir staggered backward.

  The sacred flame wavered violently.

  No one moved.

  No one breathed.

  Midas stepped away from the golden statue slowly.

  "I told you," he said quietly.

  His voice carried no anger.

  Only exhaustion.

  The boy continued crying.

  Ardeshir rushed forward and gathered him quickly.

  He did not look at Midas.

  The villagers began backing away.

  Not shouting.

  Not accusing.

  Just withdrawing.

  Hope collapsing is quieter than fear.

  That night, the golden statue was moved from the courtyard.

  Covered with cloth.

  No one spoke Midas' name.

  Ardeshir approached him alone.

  "You are not light," the priest said.

  "No."

  "You are not darkness."

  "No."

  "Then what are you?"

  Midas looked toward the fire.

  "It once judged me unworthy of hunger."

  Ardeshir's jaw tightened.

  "You should have warned us."

  "I did."

  The priest closed his eyes briefly.

  "My sister saw beauty in death."

  "She did."

  "Why do I see only cruelty?"

  Midas did not answer immediately.

  Then:

  "Because you remain."

  Ardeshir's shoulders sagged.

  "Leave," he said softly.

  Midas nodded.

  He had already decided.

  Before dawn, he stood on the road west.

  The empire behind him. The flame is distant.

  Death walked beside him longer than usual.

  "You flee again," she observed.

  "I endanger them."

  "They endanger themselves."

  He did not argue.

  "They want certainty," he said.

  "And you offer contradiction."

  "Yes."

  They walked in silence for a time.

  The road stretched toward lands where cities argued instead of prayed.

  "Where now?" she asked.

  "Where questions are louder than answers."

  A faint smile touched her expression.

  "Ah," she said. "Greece."

  Midas did not smile.

  But he did not turn back.

  Behind him, the sacred flame burned steadily once more.

  Uncertain of what it had witnessed.