Chapter 15: The Temple of Hollow Echoes – Where Truth and Deceit Are Woven in the Same Breath
The mist tasted like iron.
Zayan trudged forward, each step swallowed by a gloom so thick it seemed to press against his skin. The world had narrowed to a silver path winding through a skeletal forest — blackened trees arched above like a thousand shriveled hands frozen mid-prayer.
Behind him, the Wellspring's distant roar had become a memory. Before him, a new terror stirred.
The Scroll of Breath and Bone pulsed faintly at his side. Its binding shimmered a color Zayan could not name — somewhere between blood and starlight. It whispered without sound, Walk forward. Choose sight over fear.
He obeyed. Minutes — or was it hours? — later, the mist parted, revealing the Temple.
It loomed like a corpse built from cracked marble and forgotten oaths. Columns half-toppled into the mire, massive doors hung ajar, groaning on hinges kissed by centuries. Carvings — faces screaming, laughing, weeping — adorned every inch of the facade. Each face was hollow-eyed, staring into Zayan's soul.
A voice, neither male nor female, echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"Enter, Seeker of Threads. Truth and Deceit are lovers here. Only those who embrace both may pass."
Zayan's breath caught. His heart drummed against his ribs. Still, he stepped forward.
The doors yawned open wider with a sigh, and darkness swallowed him whole.
Inside, the air was cold enough to burn. The floor was a mosaic of shattered mirrors, each piece reflecting not him — but different versions of him: smiling, weeping, wounded, monstrous. He looked away.
A figure formed ahead, woven from shadows and drifting dust. Clad in a robe of stitched whispers, the figure bowed low. "Welcome, Heir of the Breathstone."
Zayan blinked. "You know me?"
"No one knows you. Not even yourself," the figure chuckled. "But we know your potential."
"Who are you?"
"We are the Keepers of Hollow Echoes. Guardians of the First Deceit. Whisperers of the Forgotten Oath. We weigh those who would wield Breath and Bone."
The words sank into Zayan's chest like hooks. He steadied himself. "What do you want?"
"Not what we want," the Keeper corrected gently, voice splitting into several voices like a chorus unraveling. "What you must decide."
The figure stepped aside, revealing two paths:
One bathed in soft golden light, lined with gentle flowers whose petals shimmered with hope.
The other choked in brambles, black vines writhing like living snakes, bleeding venomous sap.
"Choose," the Keeper said simply. "The Path of Trust — or the Path of Doubt."
Zayan whispering to himself,
"Isn't trust what a healer must offer?"
Scroll of Breath and Bone pulsing faintly in answer:
"Trust without wisdom is but surrender to deception."
Zayan gritting his teeth:
"Then... doubt sharpens wisdom?"
Keeper laughing softly:
"Ah... He learns. But knowing is not walking."
Zayan stared at the two paths. His instincts screamed at him to take the golden one. Easy. Safe. Welcoming.
But his heart — the deep, aching center forged through the Wellspring, the Mirror of Dust, and the Bone Choir — whispered another truth:
The true path was never easy.
He turned and stepped into the path of thorns. Pain blossomed immediately. The brambles clawed at his flesh, tearing shallow gashes into his skin. Blood welled up, but it was not merely blood — it shimmered silver, responding to the latent Sky Pulse stirring within him.
Pain is proof of growth, he thought grimly.
Every step grew heavier. The vines seemed to whisper, tempting him:
"Turn back. Dream again. Forget this pain. Return to comfort."
He gritted his teeth and pressed on. Halfway through the thorns, a second trial awaited.
A woman stood there — his mother. But no — she was dead, years ago. Still, here she was: arms open, eyes wet with love. "Zayan," she called softly. "You don't have to suffer anymore. Come home."
He faltered. Everything he had ever wanted — safety, comfort, warmth — dangled before him like a poisoned fruit.
Mother smiling through tears says
"You have nothing to prove. You're enough. Rest, my son."
Zayan trembled. Tears blurred his vision. Then he remembered.
The Scroll's lessons: "Real love never chains. Real growth demands sacrifice."
He stepped past her. Her form crumbled into ash, carried away by a wind that smelled of endings.
The vines parted before him, revealing a final gate: a mirror, tall as the sky, framed by bones and flowering scars.
Written above it in ancient script:
"Dare you see your truth?"
Zayan approached the mirror. At first, he saw only darkness. Then — slowly — his reflection emerged. But it was not just him.
It was every failure, every lie, every cowardice, every hope, every act of love, every betrayal he had committed or endured.
He saw the little boy who cried in hidden corners. The teenager who had doubted his worth. The young man who still craved approval.
He saw the future — broken, victorious, lost, redeemed — spinning endlessly around him.
He fell to his knees. "Am I... enough?" he whispered.
The mirror shimmered, not answering. Only showing.
Zayan reached out and pressed his palm to the cold glass. It shattered — not into jagged shards, but into a cascade of soft silver petals that wrapped around him like a blessing.
The pain in his cuts eased. The sky above the Temple's ruins cracked open, letting in the first sunrise he had seen in what felt like years.
The Keeper's voice returned, softer now, almost proud:
Keeper says gently
"You have walked the thorn.
You have seen the hollow truth.
Now you may bind your breath to your bone — and begin."
In his hands, the Scroll of Breath and Bone opened itself, revealing a new page.
A page written not in ink, but in Zayan's own blood and hope:
"The First Breath:
To heal others, one must first bleed willingly for oneself."
At the heart of the Hollow Echo Temple lay a Breathstone Shard, half-buried beneath the altar. It pulsed, synchronized with Zayan's heartbeat.
The Breathstone would become his companion, his anchor — a sliver of the Skyborne Academy's great power — linking him forever to the healing arts.
But he had earned it not through strength, not through deceit — but through the willingness to walk through pain unmasked.
He rose, hand closing around the shard.
Outside, the sky thundered as a new storm approached — but Zayan no longer feared storms.
He was learning to breathe through them.
[To be continued …]