The air of Zerune carried a quiet hum that morning — a sound like flint brushing silk. Every wall, every stair, every breath seemed tuned to it. Even the dust shimmered faintly, as if afraid to settle too loudly. Nakala could feel it under her skin, that pulse — the Histinak of the city. It thrummed through her bones like a second heartbeat.
Serah stood across from her on the wide terrace that overlooked the molten rivers below. The woman's hair glowed faintly in the morning light, threads of ember curling around her face. When she spoke, her words moved like music measured not by rhythm but by intention.
> "The first mistake people make," she said softly, "is believing Histinak is cast. It isn't. It's heard."
Nakala frowned, gripping the length of obsidian blade Iri'okan had forged for her. "He said to draw from the belly. To let the breath lead the blade."
Serah smiled faintly. "That is the soldier's way. The disciplined pulse. But you —" She stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against Nakala's sternum, "— are not a soldier. You're a storm trapped in flesh."
The touch burned — not from heat, but from memory. The goddess stirred within, whispering through the cracks of Nakala's soul.
Storms do not ask to be heard, murmured Esh'ra. They are the sound itself.
Nakala tried to silence her, to steady her breath. But the rhythm beneath her feet seemed alive, reacting to her struggle. The terrace stones pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Serah drew her own blade — a crescent-shaped weapon made from dull red crystal — and began to hum. The sound was low, almost imperceptible at first, but it vibrated through the air, tugging gently at the currents of flame below. Slowly, the molten rivers obeyed her call, rising and coiling in the distance like serpents in trance.
> "Every living thing carries Histinak," she explained. "But it is not the same. Yours smells like rain. It listens to chaos, not command."
Nakala closed her eyes. The hum wrapped around her, coaxing rather than demanding. Beneath the terrace, the molten flow answered again, this time to her pulse — unstable, uneven, but alive.
She reached inward, not for the goddess's voice but for the small rhythm hidden beneath the pain. A fluttering beat, fragile yet distinct. It was hers — Nakala's own. For a moment, the fire below shifted color, fading from red to deep violet, before collapsing back into silence.
Serah smiled. "There. That is your beginning."
Nakala exhaled sharply, sweat tracing her neck. "It felt like... it wanted to drown me."
"It always does. The first truth of Histinak — power is never borrowed. It remembers where it came from."
The hum faded, and silence returned — a silence full of meaning. Below, the molten rivers sighed as if satisfied by their brief freedom.
Nakala looked up. "What happens if we stop listening?"
Serah's expression darkened. "Then the world stops breathing."
For a long moment, neither spoke. In the distance, faint flickers ran through the city's walls — runes blinking like eyes struggling to stay awake. The Bound Names were weakening again, though the priests claimed the rhythm was eternal. But Nakala could feel it: the same fragility within the city that she'd just felt within herself.
Esh'ra's voice whispered again, colder now.
It will die, as all things do. Even rhythm rots.
Nakala clenched her jaw and turned to Serah. "Then teach me how not to rot."
Serah's eyes softened — a warmth that didn't feel human. "Then listen harder. Tomorrow, we descend into the pulse chambers. You will hear what most mortals cannot survive."
The hum began to return faintly, echoing from somewhere beneath the city — not peaceful now, but hollow.
And in that sound, Nakala could have sworn she heard a second rhythm forming, faint and distant — a rhythm not of Zerune, nor of fire, but something older. Something that had been waiting beneath everything.