Seeing that Arl and Veyra still held their defensive stance, the old man let out another low chuckle.
“Child, I am merely a frail old man. Is it truly necessary to guard against me like this?”
His lips curved upward.
His eyes did not.
When his gaze settled on Veyra, the scrutiny was too direct. Too deliberate.
Arl noticed.
She did not shift her position. She remained standing before Veyra, but the caution within her deepened.
The old man’s interest sharpened.
“Child, your little hound has rather captivating eyes.”
He circled slowly, assessing Veyra from the side.
Veyra’s jaw tightened. His fur bristled faintly, yet he did not retreat.
The old man paid no mind to the posture.
“Let us say this,” he continued lightly, almost carelessly. “Since you have found your way here, you must know of Dunk Temple. If I give you what you seek—would you leave this young beast with me instead? Such coloration is… refreshing to the eyes.”
Veyra did not move.
Not a single step.
Arl did not know what Olde was calculating, but she had no intention of listening further.
“You do not want companionship,” she said evenly, straightening. Her hand remained near the blade at her back. “Veyra will not go with you. He will return with me. And I do not need to trade for anything. What I seek, I will find myself.”
As she spoke, her peripheral vision measured the chamber.
Only two exits—the corridor Olde had entered from, and the fractured opening beside the fallen slab behind her. The latter plunged into unfathomable darkness.
She assessed her options.
At present, there was only one scent in the air.
Olde smiled.
“Not companionship? Then what use would I have for the pup?”
His gaze shifted from Veyra to her.
“You were not permitted to step into Dunk’s domain. The intruder is you. There is no need to posture as though you are the offended party.”
Arl stepped forward slightly, shielding Veyra further.
“I did not expect there to be any human presence here either,” she replied calmly. “I observed this region more than once. I asked the wanderers nearby. None of them knew of Dunk. If this is trespass, then it was an unintended one.”
“Indeed,” Olde murmured with a soft laugh. “You do speak well.”
He tilted his head.
“No one outside could possibly know of Dunk. And yet you do… Which makes me wonder. Are you a shaman from another tribe? A guardian, perhaps?”
Arl did not answer.
“No matter.” His tone was casual. “You need not report yourself to an old man.”
His eyes lingered on her face.
“Though I would guess—you are a child of Anda.”
Her pulse tightened.
“The melody you sang just now was an Anda prayer cadence. For a moment, I thought I misheard.”
So he had appeared only after her song.
But was he truly alone?
She did not relax.
There was something about his presence—too familiar. The kind she had long disliked.
“I am Olde,” he repeated. “High Shaman of Dunk Temple—once. Now, merely a keeper of memory.”
He gestured toward the concentric circles.
“This is the prayer chamber of the sacred beast. I revealed myself because you managed to awaken its lingering resonance.”
A flicker of curiosity crossed his expression.
“I was… intrigued.”
He smiled faintly.
“So there is no need to be so guarded.”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Then what would you speak of?” Arl asked.
“Child of Anda—”
He leaned slightly closer, steps unhurried.
“From where did you enter?”
His gaze never left her.
“All external entrances to the temple were sealed long ago. There should be no path remaining.”
“Sealed places can still have flaws,” Arl replied. “Perhaps you did not search thoroughly.”
She did not yield.
“If this is conversation, then let it be reciprocal.”
Her eyes met his.
“Why are you the only one left here? And what does ‘keeper of memory’ mean?”
“Fair enough,” Olde said, lifting one brow. “I will answer first.”
He raised his hand, sweeping it lazily through the air.
“The sacred beast…”
The chamber trembled almost imperceptibly at the word.
“The ground beneath you is part of it. Dunk Temple’s leyline—the last guardian spirit of this place.”
He gestured around them.
“This is its prayer chamber. What you sang was its liturgy.”
His gaze lowered briefly to her clothing.
“The sacred beast has fallen. I have tried more than a hundred times to awaken its spirit. Never once did it respond.”
He paused.
“But you—”
His voice dropped.
“You stirred a resonance. The chamber answered you. Faint… but real.”
For the first time, genuine confusion flickered across his features.
“Only just now did I realize—I misremembered a portion of the melody.”
His eyes locked onto hers.
“And you sang it correctly.”
Silence descended.
“The Dunk tribe should have long since perished,” he murmured. “Why would you know the correct cadence?”
He repeated softly,
“Why?”
Arl let out a short, quiet laugh.
“Misremembered?”
Her voice was not raised, but the mockery was unmistakable.
“The most basic respect of a shaman is to remember every prayer.”
Her gaze was cold.
“If you can misremember even the melody—are you still worthy of being High Shaman?”
A brief pause.
“Should I believe you?”
Olde only smiled.
There was no anger in it.
“Believe as you wish,” he said lightly. “But the truth remains—I am the last shaman.”
He looked up toward the ceiling, as if seeing something long gone.
“As for misremembering…”
He returned his gaze.
“Age brings omissions. That is natural, child.”
Arl did not react to the word.
“Omissions?” she said softly. “A prayer is not knowledge. It is inheritance.”
The faintest movement crossed his brow.
“You think you understand?” His tone cooled. “I have stood here for decades. I have tried every mode, every variation. The beast did not answer.”
He pointed at the circles.
“What you experienced was merely resonance.”
“Not choice. Coincidence.”
Arl did not argue.
She lowered her eyes to the stone rings.
“Even coincidence has cause.”
The words were light.
The air grew heavier.
Olde laughed sharply.
“Cause?”
“Because you are an Anda child? Because you preserved what I forgot? Or because I am old?”
His tone sharpened.
“Do not lecture me. In seniority, you are beneath me. In age—”
He stared at her.
“You are nothing more than a child.”
The word landed.
And something old stirred in Arl’s mind.
You are still a child. You should listen.
Everything I do is for your own good.
I strike you because you do not obey.
Like your mother—only your bloodline has value.
Those voices were not shouts.
They were certain.
Matter-of-fact.
Arl inhaled slowly.
She did not flare in anger.
It simply felt—
Familiar.
That same condescension.
That same reliance on age and title to silence truth.
She had heard it countless times.
She shook her head faintly.
“Whether what I say is true has nothing to do with what you think.”
She met his gaze.
“You are choosing not to see.”
For a split second, his expression stiffened.
Not rage.
Discomfort.
“Are my words unpleasant?” she asked mildly.
She tilted her head.
“Your expression suggests they are.”
Not mockery.
Observation.
The air thickened.
She glanced at the concentric circles.
“If you believe correctness of melody is the key—”
She stepped aside.
“Then try.”
She looked at him steadily.
“Use the melody you believe is right. See if the chamber answers you.”
Olde gave a low snort.
“Very well.”
He stepped into the center.
Flame cast a long shadow behind him.
He began the prayer.
His voice was low, controlled, practiced.
The fire flickered.
The walls seemed to absorb the sound.
Midway through the melody, his tone rose—carrying restrained emotion.
Not reverence.
Intent.
The innermost ring flashed faintly.
Almost imperceptible.
His fingers trembled.
He did not stop.
The melody climbed.
Toward the end—
The light did not spread.
It faltered.
Irregular.
Like breath disrupted.
Veyra gave a low sound—not warning.
Confusion.
The stone flickered, struggling to align—
And failing.
Olde’s voice grew louder.
More forceful.
More precise.
Trying to force the same resonance Arl had stirred.
A low vibration came from deep within the chamber.
Not response.
Friction.
Then—
All light vanished at once.
Clean.
Decisive.
Like a door closing from within.
Silence.
Olde’s eyes snapped open.
“Impossible.”
He looked around.
“The melody was aligned… why?”
For the first time, his composure fractured.
Arl watched quietly.
She knew the difference.
It was not pitch.
Not tempo.
It was that every pause in his melody pressed forward.
Never once did he truly wait.
“You did not sing incorrectly,” she said at last.
Her voice was steady.
“But you did not listen.”
His gaze sharpened.
“What do you mean?”
Arl looked at the floor.
“A prayer is not meant to summon.”
She lifted her eyes.
“It is meant to respond.”
Silence.
The fire crackled softly.
His throat moved.
“You question me?”
“I am saying—”
Her tone remained calm.
“You have been speaking to it.”
“Never stopping to see whether it wishes to answer.”
He scoffed.
“And you claim you understand listening better than I?”
Emotion colored his voice for the first time.
Veyra gave a low sound.
The chamber was still.
“You have been trying to make it move,” Arl said.
“No?”
Olde did not deny it.
“It was meant to move.”
The words slipped out.
“The temple was not built to rot in stillness.”
His voice dropped.
“It was meant to advance. To guard. To prove—”
The final words were nearly inaudible.
“That we were not wrong.”
Arl did not mock him.
“You want it to move.”
A pause.
“Not to hear it.”
The words settled—
And the outermost ring glowed faintly.
Steadier than before.
Not bright.
Just steady.
Olde’s breath stalled.
He saw it.
This time—
Arl did not sing.
She simply stood.
Silent.
The glow receded slowly.
Like a deep, measured breath.
Olde’s fingers tightened within his sleeve.
“…Merely resonance.”
His voice regained its calm.
Slower now.
“The sacred beast has long ceased walking.”
“Do not mistake an echo for choice.”
Arl did not press further.
She lowered her gaze to the stone.
Then toward the corridor beyond.
As though something there—
Was waiting.
Olde turned his eyes away.
He did not look at the rings again.
As if unwilling to confirm what he had just witnessed.
but between speaking and listening.
that restraint was intentional.
