The storm over Mumbai grows heavier, curling in on itself with rolling clouds and thunder. Gold and violet lightning streaks between the spiraling clouds, each bolt illuminating the fractured city in brief, blinding flashes. In their glow, the small girl stands unmoving on the broken highway, the great white cow beside her. The storm breathes with her. The ground trembles with her. The night bends around her.
The second night of Navratri has fully awakened.
Across the wasteland of burning concrete and shattered glass, demons continue to converge in swarms. Those farther back do not yet comprehend what happened to the first wave; they see only a lone child standing in the flames and assume prey. Their roars roll across the ruins like an approaching monsoon.
The girl lifts her chin.
Her eyes glow gold, bright and clear, around her the air shudders.
From the rooftops and cracked alleyways, survivors cling to the shadows. Some are wrapped in blankets, others in torn police or military uniforms, but all of them stare with utter desperation. The storm pulses through bone and shakes the ground.
In the shell of a nearly collapsed apartment complex, an elderly woman grips a young boy's hand as she whispers, "Maa has come… Maa has come…"
The demons charge.
Wings of raw flesh beat the smoky air. Horns glint. Their weapons, some rusted metal, some bone, some fused directly into their limbs, flash in the lightning.
The child goddess moves.
Her foot touches the ground, and ripples of golden energy spread outward like light on water. The nearest demons are caught mid-stride, their bodies freezing in place as though time has turned thick around them. Their skin peels away in wisps of ash. Their eyes melt. Their forms collapse into dust, falling like gray snowflakes onto the charred asphalt.
The cow's hooves glow brighter, tracing soft arcs of light across the ground. Each step is gentle, yet the ground trembles as though mountains are shifting beneath the city. The cow exhales, and its breath rolls forward like warm mist, yet everything demonic that touches it screams and liquefies.
The demons start to adapt.
They begin circling, howling commands. Some take to the sky, vomiting streams of green flame toward the girl. Others leap from ruined buildings, claws extended.
The girl raises a hand.
Ten faint after-images of her arms appear, each reflecting one of Durga's divine aspects. The air sharpens. Light forms as shimmering blades of pure intention.
The sky splits.
White-gold arcs tear through the incoming attackers, slicing them apart midair. Bodies fall in fragments, burning before they hit the ground.
The girl does not pause.
Her voice is soft. Barely a whisper.
"Not here."
The storm responds.
A thunderclap erupts, exploding outward like a shockwave. The demons closest to her vanish, reduced to nothing but drifting motes of black mist. Farther away, they stagger, screech, claws digging trenches into the earth as they resist the force rippling out from her small frame.
At the coastline, where the sea churns black with demonic corruption, a monstrous general rises from the fissure, towering, armored in obsidian plates fused with bone, its head a writhing nest of serpents. It raises a spear dripping with poison and rot that falls into the black waves.
The survivors gasp as they see it.
The girl simply watches it approach.
The demon general snarls, its voice rolling like thunder, echoing across the broken city:
"LITTLE SPARK OF A DYING AGE… THIS WORLD IS NO LONGER YOURS."
The girl tilts her head.
Her expression remains calm, unreadable.
"You do not belong here," she says softly.
"THIS WORLD IS OUR FEAST!"
The spear draws back.
The lightning dims.
The air thickens.
Then the cow steps forward.
Its eyes glow pure white. It lowers its head, and the humming sound from before, low and resonant rises again. The ground shakes violently, and the demon general's spear wavers as if struck by unseen gravity.
It thrusts.
The girl lifts one finger.
The spear stops completely.
Time halts around its point.
The demon general roars, muscles bulging and tearing under its own force, but the spear cannot move even a fraction of an inch closer to her.
The girl steps forward.
Her bare feet whisper across the broken concrete.
With each step, cracks in the ground bloom with golden light.
The spear vibrates… then rusts… then falls apart in a cascade of dust.
The demon general stumbles back, its great size suddenly meaningless.
The girl raises her hand.
The storm above condenses into a single point, an orb of swirling gold and white above the demon.
She lowers her hand and the orb descends.
The demon general has time to scream once, one deafening, world-shaking cry before the orb touches its head and collapses inward, compressing its immense body into a spark of light no larger than a grain of sand.
The spark flickers.
And disappears.
Silence spreads across the burning coastline.
The remaining demons recoil. Their ranks break. Some flee back toward the fissure, scrambling over one another. Others scatter into ruined streets. Their courage collapses beneath the weight of the girls power.
The girl stands still.
Her hair drifts in an invisible breeze, her eyes glowing in gentle, unwavering gold.
But the night is not over.
The fissure at the coast widens again, black smoke pouring upward, forming a spiral. A massive claw emerges, scaled, cracked, dripping with molten fire. Another follows. Something colossal shifts behind the veil.
A greater general is trying to force its way through.
The storm pulses with danger.
The girl touches the cow's neck.
A single nod.
Then she lifts her gaze to the forming monstrosity.
Her voice, though quiet, echoes across the entire ruined city.
"Not tonight."
The sky splits open.
A column of light, pure, holy, incandescent erupts downward like the blade of a cosmic sword. It strikes the fissure with force enough to rattle the sea itself.
The claw retracts and the fissure slams shut.
The black smoke collapses inward as the storm begins to calm.
Clouds thin.
Lightning fades.
But the girl remains standing, her breathing steady despite the vast power she expended.
She turns back toward the city.
Her steps are light as she walks toward the temple once more.
All around her, ashes drift like soft black snow. The fires around Mumbai dim beneath the light she carries, their flames becoming gentle, almost reverent.
The cow follows, silent and eternal.
Survivors crawl out from hiding places behind overturned cars, beneath broken staircases, from underground garages with eyes wide, disbelieving. Some fall to their knees at the very sight of her. Others simply weep, hands pressed to their hearts.
The old priest from before is carried by two younger men, his body frail, his eyes watery. When he sees the girl return, he sobs, placing his forehead to the temple's scorched floor.
"Maa… Maa has come back to us…"
The girl looks at him.
And smiles, small, soft, and warm.
She says nothing. Words are unnecessary.
The cow steps into the temple doorway first, its presence calming the terrified, grounding the trembling. The girl follows, walking to the center of the cracked sanctuary. She sits quietly where the idol once stood.
The lamps around the temple flare awake, burning brighter than they have in years.
Outside, the thunder ceases.
The storm dissolves fully, returning the sky to a deep purple-black.
A faint glow blooms along the horizon, the first suggestion of dawn.
The second night of Navratri ends.
But the war has only begun.