I've beheld death before. I'd prayed to Agni, asking Him not to claim my mother's soul. I remember the taste of salt as my tears streamed down my cheeks all those years ago. I'd pleaded with and begged the deity, even as Mama's body disintegrated to ash on her funeral pyre. It's uncanny— the realization that the dead are gone forever, and they're never coming back. I learned that truth at a young age, and it's one I'll never forget.

Asleep forever, resting in the warmth of Agni, as the funeral rites state.

The doctrine of the Fire Order has never sat quite right with me. I'm sure there must be some truth to these teachings, but too often, they prove contradictory in some way.

Men are never predisposed toward walking into the jaws of death, though, on occasion, the Naidrin Court claims it is deserved.

Choice is synonymous to free will, and choice proceeds death.

Unless that choice is stolen in murder.

The high priest of the Southern Temple has been killed.

Priest Charun's voice carries from all the way across the courtyard, "He lived a devout life of complete supplication to Agni, doing by thought, tongue, and hand the works of peace and goodness— for a lifetime."

Thus is the way of the Fire Order: to live peaceably while we await Agni's supposed return.

I'm beginning to tune Charun out, "... To live in peace is to burn long and brightly."

Until now.

Sweat beads on my forehead, and the afternoon sun burns my cheeks pink. The thin ceremonial dress I'd donned for the funeral is airy against the skin of my back, a blessed reprieve from the miserable humidity.

Every living soul of the southern temple is gathered in the courtyard beneath the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun. We stand utterly silent and still, heads bowed. This is meant to be a solemn event; the funeral of the high priest is no joyous occasion, especially under such circumstances as murder. At this rate, Agni's return will not be imminent.

Despite my situational awareness, my lips quirk up at the prospect of fried artichoke and pork floss in the city square. While at the temple we are expected to mourn, I have plans to enjoy the celebration with the cityfolk tonight. A celebration of life. And of death.

I can tell by the way the girls to my left shift impatiently on their sandaled feet that they share the same hopes. My heart sinks in my chest, knowing I cannot successfully travel into the city unnoticed if many others have similar plans. Unless I want to be punished along with them. I struggle to turn my attention back to the deacon who now chants an opening stanza of the funeral rites.

This deacon reportedly served at the excavation site of an ancient marketplace, only transferring to the Southern Temple two months ago. Naidara and various nations have different camps set up a couple miles into the Palían Plains. Excavators dare not venture too far into the barren wastelands, for fear of what creatures lurk in the ruins. Perhaps also for fear associated with sunbleached human bones and rumors of centuries old curses.

Maiden priestesses enter the courtyard, single file. My attention is fixed on the woman leading the procession. Jiera. It is an honor she was chosen, mere acolyte that she is, to take part in their song and dance.

Jiera's long black hair spills over her shoulders, perfectly framing her serene face. Her hands hang loosely at her sides. She wears flowing robes of a blushed pink color that brighten her complexion and highlight her natural beauty. A bronze circlet sits upon Jiera's head, hanging low against her forehead. She is dressed in the symbolic garb of Elanvi, a queen of old,— the Sun Queen. The Bride of Agni.

There are many renditions of this legend. Each telling changes based on the lore of the land. Some sects in Zalase fancy Elanvi a goddess, whereas the Shaki who'd rather worship nature believe Elanvi to be mother of all. Many-a-legend claims she was Mikari— gifted in the arts of healing.

The entourage of maiden priestesses take position flanking the right of the funeral pyre. The high priest's body lies nearby, covered in a white linen garment that has been draped over his corpse. Jiera, portraying Elanvi, lifts the bronze circlet from her head, and steps forward. Her lips part and she begins to sing. Her voice carries throughout the courtyard, ebbing and flowing like the tide lapping at the shore.

The maiden priestesses begin to dance, their arms graceful and reaching. I watch them spin, their gauzy skirts swishing after them. Jiera sings a song of birth, the lyrics weaving the traditional story of our creation, and of Agni's virtuous flame. Her sweet voice is joined by the maiden priestesses then, harmonizing and rising into a glorious crescendo. They hold their notes for an everlasting moment before suddenly, they all drop silent— save for one woman, whose name I don't know. Her contralto notes carry over a hushed crowd. Jiera's tone is despondent as she sings of the Palían war, of death and destruction.

Perhaps with the most heart wrenching melody, they've enraptured the attention of all present. I forget for a moment that I once knew her, as if a curtain has been pulled, separating our past from this present performance. A diminuendo leads Jiera into the next verse,

Orphaned now since war's offend,

Neighbors dealt blows beyond mend,

Fire will answer, Fire will wend,

He shall judge, he shall contend,

Hallowed flame on them, descends

The priestesses finish their song and dance, and file off to the back of the courtyard to allow the next entourage to enter. The bearers of the flame. They will now bring a torch burning with ceremonial flame and light the central pit.

With how many dissentious souls the Naidrin Court has ruled to cast into the central flame this year, I've heard whispers that High Priest Julien had it coming. The voice of rebellion living in the far corners of my mind calls the high priest's virtue into question on that account. Power eventually corrupts even the soundest of minds.

Everybody knows he had a major sway in the dealings of Naidara's ruling Court. Somebody must have murdered the high priest, and the priests of the Fire Order are hellbent on uncovering the culprit. Some of the younger students were whispering at the baths this morning, worried that the priests would force us into the central flame. I highly doubt the veracity of their words, and I'm almost certain I know which student started that rumor with her one aim being to terrify them.

"Priest Charun, may I go relieve myself?" Speak of the devil. Rumi runs off to the restrooms after the young priest nods his affirmation. I turn at the sight of movement on the edge of my peripheral. A black robe slinks away after her. I roll my eyes. Of course Rumi wouldn't actually need the toilets. Not for typical uses, that is. It is so like her to invent a falsehood in the face of tragedy to terrorize the younger ones. Then take advantage of Priest Charun's kind nature.

My mind wanders, recollecting images of burnt remains chained to a fire pit. I have seen Court jurisdictions end with some poor soul's mind shattering screams as executional flame ripped through their charred body. The Fire Order and the Court dually agreed that they must have been guilty. Why else would Agni claim their souls? Regardless of my own moral standing, a journey into the holy flame is not amongst my greatest aspirations. How strange that we use the same fire to cleanse our wicked as well as commit the holy dead to God. The fire burns all the same.

"We still have faith that in dire need, Agni will once again brighten the darkness. As prophecy has foretold," Priestess Brielle states. I glance over to Priest Charun, who schools his features, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrays him. At least we're not the only one's ready for the ceremony to end.

Hours have passed. Sweating, standing, legs and skin burning, Priestess Brielle long took over the ceremonial rites. I try to pay attention to her wording and pronunciation, no matter how droll the hours-long funeral has been. Her voice, strong as ever, echoes against the columns surrounding the courtyard, chanting an unfamiliar stanza in the rite.

—

At twilight, the sun sinks on the horizon, the sky is a wash of pink and deep purple before the continent is blanketed in complete blackness. The high priest's body is placed gingerly into the flames. We all look up to witness blue tongues of fire lap at the lifeless body. The whole burning is arguably counterintuitive; the evidence necessary to find the murderer in our midst goes up in flames before my eyes.

Fifteen minutes pass— his body takes so long to burn, crowds of cityfolk have had ample time to gain ear of the ceremony, and show up.

My eyes flick to Priestess Brielle to find she's already watching me. Her mouth is a firm line, her countenance like marble. The maiden priestesses sing a song with the crackling fire in remembrance of the life claimed, and of safety in Agni's warmth. I cannot read the priestess's gaze; her eyes gleam with veiled emotion. I will have to put my plans to escape into the city on hold.

I return my attention to the central flame, hot enough to warm my cheeks from this distance, and I catch the unfortunate surprise of watching the high priest's skull finally disintegrate into ash. The unnatural flame incinerates not only the wicked, but their bones, too. Bile sours the back of my tongue and I decide to take my leave. If I can't have pork floss tonight, then I can have an evening bath. I turn to find the crowds have pressed in, past the black robed acolytes, necks craning to catch a final glimpse of the oldest and dead...est in our midst. I use their numbers to slip away mostly unnoticed though I know I'll hear about this later if the priestess has her way.

"I thought the priests were immortal?" A woman exclaims to her companion as I squeeze past.

"Evidently not." Her companion's reply is faint amongst the numerous grumblings of these perspiring people.

"Serves them right," states a male voice nearby, "Now they have to burn one of their own." The menace in his tone makes me duck my head further, hoping not to earn their ire in my obvious temple garb. The Fire Order and the Naidrin Court have made an unhappy neighbor of the cityfolk, perhaps after one too many court trials gone awry— out of the courtroom and into the fire, so to speak. The unrest is nothing new, it has been brewing for decades, worsened by the recent propaganda from the northern kingdom, Holtz.

I can faintly see the glow of candlelight behind marble columns just twenty yards away. So close to being clear of the crowd, I raise my head and shove past the final throng of noisy people. In doing so, I am grabbed by the back of my dress, tearing it at the shoulder. The hand yanks hard enough to pull me off balance. My oppressor successful, I stumble backward, the side of my head thudding against a solid chest. Onlookers jeer and suggest crude ideas.

The man chuckles deeply, and starts to release me, having had his fun toying with a "meek little temple girl". He reeks of smoke from the fire of a smithery. The scent, paired with the recent image of a charred corpse is enough to cause my earlier acid reflux to come back up. I spew vomit all over him, emptying my stomach and unabashedly using his disgust to my advantage. Without skipping a beat, I use his shirt to wipe my mouth as he pulls away, gagging. I sprint, others giving me a wide berth to avoid chunks of the rabbit stew I had for lunch. I do not stop to look behind me as the black robed acolytes join the discord to calm the crowd.

The shouts grow faint in the distance. By the time I approach the temple steps, I'm well out of earshot. My sandaled feet slap against smooth, polished floors as I rush out of the great hall, into the hallway leading to the student dormitories. I reach my room, undistinguishable except by nine years of memory. Plain, polished limestone walls, gossamer curtains floating in a calm evening breeze wafting up from the ocean. A thin white mattress with accompanying white bedding sits in the middle of the small space, the head against the wall. I have few substantial personal belongings beyond clothing and toiletries in an oak chest. A string of colorful beads on a string, turquoise, amethyst, citrine, and rose quartz. Some of my own books, given to me as gifts. A necklace that belonged to my mother.

Greed is rooted in ownership.

The religious verse plays like an anthem in my mind.

War is rooted in greed.

I wonder about those distant forests on Holtic land where the mighty Suncha tree was cut down to fashion my chest and others like it. I think about the man who now lives on that land. A man who has certainly grown to hate me.

I step quietly to the window, propping my elbows up against the sill. A luxurious view of shadowed, cragged cliffs greets me, waves buffeting against a rocky shore far below. While the tide rises high, seaspray rises higher upon the impact of each powerful wave.

The temple is perched on the highest hill overlooking the ocean, making for an impenetrable fortress by sea, and a difficult siege by land as the ground slope would be against an invader's favor were it not for the ancient marble steps leading right to our front door. I snort at the notion of our forefathers having come out of a war only to pave a path right to us should invasion come. How haughty of them, and how presumptuous. We are creatures of habit, we are prone to repeating history. Already there is unrest, and already there is division. It occurs to me how all things appear simple in childhood. I cannot remember a time when such tensions plagued Naidara at that time.

When I was younger, myself and those who I might've considered childhood companions would roam the halls after dark. Our superiors in deep sleep, we'd discover passageways descending below the earth's surface. The historical records are kept in airtight chambers underground, naturally formed caves sealed with thick multicolored glass from the outside elements. As curious children, the chambers allowed for superb hiding spots, or make-believe dungeons.

Malia, Jiera, Silas.

Three names carved with a brass hairpin into the soft wood of a bookshelf housing ancient manuscripts I never dared to touch, lest Priestess Brielle's wrath should reign down upon me. Silas did not share my fear. He would argue immunity due to the fact that his mother would not bring him into this world merely to march him to the flame. Nothing could stand between that boy and a good read. Much less, a forbidden read— especially during the tender age of adolescence. Now he's grown, sent away to train as a priest in the Northern Order. What will become of him should the rumors be true? If our suspicions are accurate, he could be in danger of being murdered depending on who is really behind the killing of the high priest, and whether or not he was the sole target.

I shake my head at the nonsense of my train of thought. Of course that would never happen. The high priest of the Northern Order was surely well acquainted with our late high priest. They were as old as one another, with shared experiences. If any would do well to keep from breaking Agni's tenets in murder, it would be them. Any notion to the contrary could mean civil war; repeating history would be folly indeed, considering the still-barren state of Western Palía since the Old War. My paranoia is getting ahead of me. I back away from the open window towards my bed. I sit down and undo the straps on my sandals before relaxing upon my bed, my back leaning against the wall. I frown when I realize my mouth still tastes like bile and I rise again to wash my mouth and teeth. By the time I stand and approach the door, my hand removing the latch, my mind is already clamoring with suppressed memories.

"It's all your fault," Jiera's voice, summoned from the far reaches of my memory. "He never wanted to join the Order."

Silas' plan was foolish; to run away and serve as a guard or soldier in the north. He knew Agni's tenets, he should value peace over war regardless of whether Agni will be returning. I prevented Silas from killing in the name of that Holtic King, for his gain. I wonder, if he could read my present thoughts and sense my doubts, he would call me a hypocrite for having such faith in Agni's Tenets to jeopardize his future and his wishes, but question them when it comes to my own. Nevertheless, Priestess Brielle would never have allowed Silas' plan to come to fruition, regardless of my hand in the matter.

I explained my motives to Jiera many times over. More like attempted to, but she has never allowed me to get a word in. Now, I am friendless surrounded by white marble pillars and an ancient tongue that echoes all too easily through these vaulted halls.

A cacophony made worse by the temple's irritatingly reverberant echo approaches the dorm halls. The students and black robes have returned from the ceremony. We begin as students of the basic histories, mathematics, reading, and writing. After ascension from that program, we begin learning the phonics of the Palian Language.

The aforementioned chambers house writings thousands of years old in the general language we speak widely, today. However, the oldest and therefore far more intriguing records are those written in the original language. Silas is unusually gifted in deciphering the runic alphabet and therefore enjoyed the old knowledge that comes with the skillset unbeknownst to his mother. Myself and Jiera, on the other hand, used to struggle forming singular words aloud.

The ancient tongue's phonics are difficult to master for some, impossible for others. Nonetheless, this is a staple skill to be indicted into the priesthood. Those students who prove inept have the option of leaving, or taking up the black mantle after a test of physical prowess. They become black robed acolytes to serve as security during public events and perform other brunt work in the temple. Evidently, catering to certain students' hormones has become one of their favorite pastimes.

The religious histories teach their own reasoning behind the near impossibility of learning a language once widely spoken. Some suggest we were made to forget how to form the words once used to speak to Agni. Who's to say the current rendition of the Old Tongue is accurate in the slightest? Every syllable could be slightly off as attributed to some legendary curse.

Silas, an academic genius, kept his prowess private. However, a mother's intuition is a formidable force. He hoped to prove inept with the ancient Palian tongue and thenceforth escape to live a mundane life. When comparing his genius to my own struggle with the language, I felt it a sinful waste of potential to allow that to happen. Jiera might not ever forgive me, and I have not had the chance to face Silas myself to gauge his ire.

I hear her now, laughing a musical laugh that so ensnares many to her fancy. Jiera is beautiful and intelligent, her pronunciation exceeds my own abilities. I open my door to see her arm in arm with one of the acolytes. She still wears the blushed pink gown, the color just as befitting to her in the dim lighting of these halls. I wait until she and the rest pass by without more than a glance in my direction before stepping out into the hall, closing the door gently behind me.