Temples in the Heart

Chapter I — The Age of Two Dragons

Long ago, in a distant world, two mighty dragons rose against each other.

They were so vast that their wings covered half the sky, and their roars shook the earth like thunder rolling through the mountains.

One dragon was the color of burning coal, and from his jaws poured black smoke that blotted out the sun.
The other shone like cold metal, and his breath was icy as a northern storm.

They fought with such fury that mountains crumbled and cities turned to dust.
Rivers changed their course, forests vanished, and the earth cracked beneath their blows.

The battle did not last a day or a year—it raged for a whole century.

Generations of people were born and died without ever knowing another sky, only the one torn apart by the wings of dragons.
They could not remember what it was to live without the crash of battle, without the fear of the ground trembling underfoot.

The dragons’ sorcerers walked among the lands, casting illusions upon human hearts.
They whispered:
— “Only by serving your dragon can you survive.”
— “Give your strength, your time, your life—and your dragon will protect you.”

The sorcerers filled the air with noise—songs, speeches, cries—that echoed everywhere.
It was impossible to silence; it seeped even into dreams.

And so people stopped hearing their own thoughts.

Children played at being warriors in the armies of one dragon or the other, believing that this was the whole meaning of life.
Adults followed the sorcerers, for no one showed them another path.

And the longer the battle raged, the fewer places remained where one could hide from its shadow.

It seemed the dragons would fight forever, their roars becoming the voice of the sky itself.

But no one yet knew that one day, a man would be born who would see it all differently.

Chapter II — The Retinue and the Traps

Each dragon had his own retinue—warriors, advisers, singers, and storytellers.

They did not attack people with weapons.
Their power was in words.

They spoke in ways that made even the heart begin to believe a lie.
They told stories of the great deeds their dragon had done, and that all honor and safety could only be found at his side.

— “Be like everyone else, and you will be noticed,” they said.
— “Do not step out of line, or you will be left alone.”
— “Look at that one in the retinue—see how richly he lives, how many songs and treasures he has! You too can have this, if only you serve.”

They created traps from which there was no escape—because they had no bars.
People walked into them willingly, thinking happiness awaited inside.

And the traps were cunning:

• Feasts, where all spoke only of the dragon’s glory, not of each other’s joy.

• Songs that praised power and wealth, not warmth and friendship.

• Games where victory came not to the one who created, but to the one who pleased the sorcerers.

The more people worked, giving their time and strength, the heavier their souls became.
And yet they continued, for the sorcerers’ illusions were strong, and the noise of the retinue drowned out every doubtful voice.

Thus the years passed.
Children grew up to take their parents’ place in service.
And it seemed no one would ever remember how to live differently.

But one day, amid all the clamor, there was born someone who could hear something else—
a different voice, rising quietly beyond the noise.

Chapter III — The Birth of the Seer

In the year when winter lingered longer than usual, and even the spring streams ran beneath ice, a child was born in a small village hidden among the hills.

They named him Lian.

From childhood, Lian was different from the other children.
While his peers ran about playing “the battle of dragons,” he preferred to sit on a high stone by the river and listen to the water’s murmur.

In its sound he heard more than splashing—he felt as though the river spoke to him in a quiet voice.

When the dragons’ sorcerers came to the village, calling people to festivals of glory, Lian watched the faces of the adults.
He saw how their smiles never reached their eyes, how their laughter carried exhaustion.

Once, he overheard an old man whisper to another:
— “We give everything… and in return we are left with emptiness.”

In those words, Lian felt something important stir.

The years passed, and Lian grew.
More and more clearly he saw: the dragons could not be defeated in battle.
They were too vast, and their retinues too skilled with words.

But he also noticed something else.
Each dragon was fed only by what people themselves gave: their faith, their time, their strength.
And if the people stopped feeding them, the dragons would wither.

One night, under a sky filled with stars, Lian had a dream.

In that dream he stood on a barren plain.
Before him lay a dragon, immense yet weakened, silent—
for around him there was no one left to serve.

And a voice, quiet as the river, spoke to him:
— “Defeat the dragons within yourself—and the world will shine.”

From that day on, Lian understood: his path was not to fight, but to show people that they had a choice.

Chapter IV — The Spark Within

Lian began with small things.

He did not stand in the squares, he did not argue with the sorcerers, he did not call for revolt.
Instead, he spoke quietly—only where ears were ready to listen.

— “Create not for the dragons, but for the people,” he whispered to a craftsman forging swords for the retinue.
“Forge plowshares instead, so the earth may feed those you love.”

— “If everything has been taken from you—become the light,” he told a woman whose workshop had been seized.
“Make what brings joy to you, not profit to them.”

— “Do not believe it when they say you must be like everyone else. Masks are heavy—take them off,” he encouraged a young man who longed to paint but feared judgment.

He taught them how to escape the dragons’ traps:

• Do not chase wealth for the sake of others’ approval.

• Do not copy the path of those who serve the retinue.

• Do not trust in glitter that hides only emptiness.

And above all, he taught them to give warmth without expecting reward.
— “Plant the seed of a good deed, and it will grow. Perhaps not at once. Perhaps another will see it. But the earth remembers seeds.”

Little by little, people began to change.
They still lived under the dragons’ wings, but sparks began to glow in their hearts.

First one.
Then another.
Then dozens.

The sorcerers still shouted of their masters’ glory, but those who had glimpsed the light listened less and less.

In their homes appeared things made for joy, not for gain.
And in their eyes—a quiet, stubborn gleam.

And Lian knew: one day, there would be so many sparks that no shadow could ever extinguish them.

Chapter V — Awakening and Quiet Resistance

Soon, those whose hearts carried a spark began to change in ways that could not be hidden.

They stopped attending the festivals of the dragons’ glory.
They no longer competed for the praise of the sorcerers.

Their hands still created, but not for crowns or lavish feasts.
They built small houses with wide windows, where any traveler could step inside.
They baked bread and shared it freely, without payment.
They painted pictures—not to sell, but to give to those in need of light.

The dragons’ sorcerers and retinue noticed.
They began to go from house to house, persuading:
— “Return to the ranks. Here lies your safety. Here lies your fate.”

And when words failed, their voices grew harsh:
— “What do you think you are doing? You are destroying order!”

Some, still bound by the spell, shouted at their neighbors:
— “Do not stand out! Do not shame the village! Do you think you are better than us?”

But the awakened could no longer be stopped.
They did not argue.
They simply walked away—quietly, without noise, but forever.

They ceased listening to the dark sorcerers, ceased feeding the dragons with their faith and strength.

And wherever they went, temples began to appear—temples unseen by the eye.

These were temples of the heart—places where the warmth of a fire was a prayer, and helping one another was the sacred ritual.

In these temples, people became free, for their light belonged to no one but themselves.

And though the dragons still thundered above the world, in these places their roar was nothing more than a distant echo.

Epilogue — A Parable

They say the dragons will fight forever.
Their roars will roll through the valleys, their wings will darken the sky.
The sorcerers will sing their songs, and the retinue will build new traps.

But there is one thing they will never be able to take.
It is your choice.

You can feed the dragons with your fear, your attention, and your strength.
Or you can take it all back, warm it in your heart, and turn it into light.

To defeat the dragon within is to cease being its prisoner.
To build a temple in your heart is to be free forever.

And then, even if the battle rages all around,
you will not hear the dragons’ roar—
but the crackle of your own fire,
and the voices of those who sit beside it.