The road east shimmered like molten glass, the horizon bending with each step.
Nakala walked at the center of the small group — Iri'okan silent beside her, the Wanderer humming under his breath to keep the air steady.
Each note he sang seemed to keep the world from blurring.
By dusk, they reached the gates of Zerune.
Massive walls of red clay and polished obsidian rose before them, etched with spiraling glyphs that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the city's heart.
A sound drifted from within — not quite song, not quite breath — a hum of thousands of names woven together.
"This city sings itself alive," the Wanderer murmured. "Each name spoken within its walls adds to the rhythm. It's how they resist forgetting."
As they entered, Nakala felt the hum resonate in her bones. Every face she passed carried faint symbols on their skin — sigils carved over the heart, wrists, or throat. Even the children wore them, small and gleaming like living stars.
"What happens if someone forgets their sigil?" she asked.
"They don't," Iri'okan said. "The sigil remembers them."
---
They reached the central plaza, where hundreds of candles burned without flame — spheres of sound suspended in glass orbs. At the heart of the square stood a woman, tall, wrapped in dark green cloth embroidered with silver thread.
Her eyes gleamed like stormlight — sharp, discerning, and ancient in their calm.
She turned as Nakala approached.
"You walk with a rhythm I've not heard since the gods fell," she said softly.
Nakala hesitated. "And you are?"
The woman bowed slightly. "I am Serah Nyora, Keeper of the Bound Names."
Her voice was low and resonant, carrying the tone of someone who had spoken to silence and survived.
When she looked at Nakala, her gaze didn't flinch at the divine presence within — she saw her, fully, and did not kneel.
> "This one," Esh'ra whispered with quiet intensity. "She knows what I am."
Nakala's chest tightened. "Then maybe she can help us."
---
Serah led them through the streets of Zerune, explaining the city's nature.
"Every soul here is bound by their Name Sigil. Our memories are inscribed through rhythm — sung, not written. The N'gai cannot consume what is already bound in sound."
She glanced back. "But your presence… it disrupts our rhythm. You draw the forgotten closer."
"I didn't mean to," Nakala said.
Serah smiled faintly. "Intent means little to rhythm. It follows what you are, not what you wish to be."
They stopped before a massive temple built into the side of the mountain — carved with lines that shimmered faintly like veins of gold.
"This is the Hall of Echoes," Serah said. "The place where all Bound Names are sung each night to keep them alive."
Inside, hundreds of voices chanted in slow harmony. Nakala could see the sound — threads of light rising from their mouths, weaving through the air like living silk.
She closed her eyes and felt her own rhythm stir in answer — her Histinak reaching instinctively to join theirs.
The entire hall shuddered.
The singing faltered. Some of the lights dimmed.
Serah caught Nakala's arm, eyes wide. "Stop. You're resonating with them — rewriting their names."
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize," Serah said, her voice softer now. "You can't help it. You're remembering them too perfectly. That kind of remembrance burns."
---
Later that night, Nakala sat on the temple steps, the stars above rippling faintly in waves of gold and blue.
Serah joined her, carrying two cups of sweet black tea.
"You don't belong to this world," Serah said quietly. "I can feel it in your breath."
"Neither do you," Nakala replied.
Serah smiled, slow and knowing. "No. I suppose I don't. I came from the far south — before the erasures began. My people's songs died before Zerune was built."
She sipped her tea. "When I sing now, I do it for ghosts."
Nakala looked at her — really looked. The soft strength in her shoulders. The faint scars where a sigil had once been carved and later sealed over.
"Why help me?" she asked.
Serah turned her gaze to the horizon. "Because when you walked through the gates, the city's rhythm changed.
It began to hope."
---
> "This one feels too much," Esh'ra murmured. "She will be your undoing if you let her anchor you."
"I think that's why I need her," Nakala whispered inwardly.
> "Foolish child. You cannot love something you will outlast."
"Maybe," Nakala said softly, "but I can still try."
Serah looked at her then, as if hearing the words unspoken, and smiled — a quiet, knowing smile that lingered like a song at the edge of waking.
And as the night deepened, the city hummed around them —
a rhythm of countless souls bound together,
each whispering her name,
Nakala… Esh'ra… the one who remembers us.
---
End of Chapter 8