Legend LI – The Moon Temple of Shavari

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It is said that in the mountains of Aravel, where the night is deeper than any valley and where the wind blows so softly it seems to want to awaken no one, a hidden temple rests. Not a temple of walls, not a hall of stone, but a single, colossal head carved from black moon metal—the face of the goddess Shavari, guardian of steps in the dark. Most saw only rock and shadow as they treaded those paths, but those who traveled with a burning lantern could sometimes glimpse her face in the stone, as if the moon itself were lifting a forgotten veil. The night Lyra found the way, the moon hung full and heavy over the mountains. It hung so low that its light trickled over the rocks like water. The young woman, whose name was hardly known in the villages because she rarely visited, traveled only with a lantern. Her dress barely fluttered, though a chill rose from the rock that would have made any other heart tremble. Lyra's step was light but purposeful, as if she knew exactly where she was going and yet not why. The stories had led her here—stories of people who had heard a voice in a dream and the next morning knew a path they had never walked before. A voice that said, "Come." The mountains opened before her like a gateway, and only when the path widened did she see it: the face. Immense, grown out of the rock, like an ancient heart determined not to die. Shavari's face did not shine like the goddess of Aravel in the daylight; it shimmered a cold blue, forged from a metal that was neither stone nor gold. The eyes were closed, yet Lyra felt them smile. It was not a warm smile, not a comforting one—more one that knew what she did not yet know. Lyra stepped closer, the lantern in her hands like a tiny sun. Its light spread in soft threads across the ground, over the dry grasses, over Shavari's large earrings, which shone like moons in the moonlight. Then she heard it: a humming, soft as the breath of a memory. The next moment, the night seemed to thin. The wind fell silent. The shadows paused. And in the moonlight, a barely perceptible golden glow pulsed at the goddess's throat, where a large ornament of ancient symbols hung. Lyra raised the lantern higher, and the humming answered her like a melody without beginning. "You were looking for me." The voice did not come from the statue's mouth. It was everywhere—in the rocks, in the light, in Lyra's heart. "No," whispered Lyra, "I was called." The air seemed to stir, though there was no wind. The moon slipped behind a cloud, and for a moment the goddess seemed to breathe. "Everyone who comes carries a burden they cannot name." Lyra swallowed. She was cold. But she didn't back down. For a question haunted her for years: Why did she always feel as though she had lost something she had never possessed? The goddess was silent for a long moment.