Legend LVII – The Goddess in the Circle of Breath and Stone

More about Legend LVII – The Goddess in the Circle of Breath and Stone

Deep in the jungle, where no compass ever holds the right direction and where light rests like liquid gold dust among the leaves, lies a temple found only when one is not seeking it. Some call it the House of Silent Footsteps, others the Hall of Eternal Return. But those who saw it and brought their silence bear another name: The Circle of Asha-Lun. Amidst the ruins, whose pillars reach towards the sky like forgotten prayers, stands a figure, tall as a dream, slender as a thread of flame in the wind. Her body seems to be made of greenish shimmering stone, smooth as water congealed into form. No dust settles on her skin, no moss dares to touch her. Golden ornaments, as delicate as breath, wind around her neck; her arms rest at her sides, without hardness, without weaponry—only presence. Behind her rises a wheel of intricate reliefs, a circle in which every leaf, every face, every flame in the stone seems like a frozen heartbeat. No beginning. No end. Only eternity, silently watching. They say she is not a statue. Not quite. Some call her a deity, others a queen, still others merely an echo. But the ancients whispered something else: Asha-Lun was once alive. A guardian of the balance between change and continuity, between the step forward and the step back. Once she is said to have wandered the world, barefoot, in the whisper of the wind, and with a single glance soothed the wrath of the storms. But when humans began to measure time like coins and to bind the future, she is said to have decided to remain—motionless, yet awake. Stone, yet soul. Whoever approaches the temple feels it. Not fear. Something else. As if the air were waiting to see whether the visitor comes with heaviness or with lightness. Some travelers knelt, without knowing why. Others wept in silence. For her eyes—though made of stone—carry that gentle knowledge possessed only by those who have seen the beginning and the end and have chosen not to judge. Once, so the legend goes, a poet entered the hall. He was broken with questions, weary of journeys, and his words were like shattered glass. He ascended the moss-covered stairs and stood before her. Minutes, hours, perhaps years passed—no one knows. But when he returned, he had no answers. Only peace. He said, “She did not speak. But the silence was full as an ocean.” From that day on, his speech was filled with light, and those who heard his poems heard Asha-Lun continue to breathe through them. Others came with greed in their hearts. They saw in her a jewel, a treasure, a wonder to be possessed. For them, the wheel behind her was not a circle, but a gate. A passage to power. Whoever touched it vanished. Not violently, not with a scream—simply like a dream upon waking. Some believe they stepped into another time.