The Echo of Devotions
Once, in the swirling sands of ancient Arkinthia, a relic lay hidden beneath the ochre dunes — a compass
that did not point north but to the whispers of one's heart. In the age of airships and steam, where brass
gears meshed with arcane sorcery, this compass was sought by many an adventurer, and many a scholar of
dissonant time.
She found the compass on an afternoon thick with the scent of rust and rain, amid the crumbling stones
of a forgotten temple. The temple's ceilings had long since fallen, creating a mosaic of light and debris,
casting shadows that danced with an unauthorized life upon her worn journals.
"The echo of devotions," murmured the old woman, her voice like the
crackling of wind through hollow reeds, "is not in the artifacts but in the hearts of those who seek them."
She was a guardian of whispers, keeper of tales unmoored by the tides of time.
As she traced the intricate designs carved into the compass's face, she felt the sands shift under her feet,
revealing pathways to worlds unseen. Each turn of the compass needle was a step into anachronistic echoes,
puncturing the veil between eras with a resonance that called to the unseen stars.