The hut was silent.
Maahi's body lay beneath the woven blanket, her skin still warm, as if she had only just drifted into sleep. Aash sat beside her one last time, brushing her hair away from her face. Her expression held no pain, only peace — but that peace wasn't real.
Her soul had not moved on.
He could feel it — hovering just beyond reach, suspended like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
The message burned above the bed still echoed in his mind:
"Return what is not yours… or she dies in truth."
He didn't know what he had stolen. Or who had claimed it was theirs.
But he knew one thing now:
Maahi wasn't truly dead. Not yet.
He rose and stepped outside. The sun had barely risen. The village was still asleep, or pretending to be. Crows gathered on the rooftops, silent observers.
At the edge of the fields, the old village elder waited, hunched against a walking stick. He said nothing as Aash approached.
"I need to leave," Aash said. "She's not gone. I… I can still bring her back."
The elder nodded slowly. "Then you'll need to go to Dhaamrath."
Aash blinked. "What's there?"
"Ruins. Priests. Merchants. And lies dressed as wisdom. But truth waits too… buried deep, under ash and blood."
The old man took a small cloth from his satchel and pressed it into Aash's palm. Inside was a dried petal — pale violet and still fragrant.
"When the city overwhelms you, crush this. It will remind you of silence."
Aash bowed. "Please watch over her. Keep her body safe."
The elder met his eyes. "I've buried many. But I will not bury her. Not unless you return empty."
And with that, Aash turned toward the misted horizon.
The road to Dhaamrath was little more than a trail of stone and mud, winding through hills and tangled forest. Aash walked with nothing but a satchel, a waterskin, and the small black bead the priest had given him.
The sun dipped low as the trees grew taller. Birds fell silent. He found shelter beneath an overhanging rock near a dry stream. The night crept in like smoke, wrapping around the roots and branches.
Aash lay on the hard earth, staring at the stars through the gaps above.
He didn't notice when sleep took him.
He dreamed of a mountain made of ash.
At its peak sat a figure — a god, still as stone, matted hair woven with serpents. His eyes were shut, but tears streamed down his cheeks.
Opposite him knelt a horned being — an Asura — arms bound, body aflame… but smiling.
Between them hovered a sliver of light.
A child. Faceless. Forged not by love — but by guilt. Born from a broken vow.
The god wept.
The demon smiled.
And Aash — watching — felt the fire crawl into his ribs and make a home.
He gasped.
The forest whispered.
Shadows bent unnaturally, and from them emerged the figure — cloaked, masked in silver, blade curved like a serpent's fang.
The assassin moved in silence, every step practiced. Each leaf avoided. The blade rose above Aash's heart, ready to pierce and twist.
But just as it descended—
—something struck first.
A pulse. Not of sound. Not of light.
A vibration, deep and ancient, like the chime of a temple bell struck by thunder.
The black bead on Aash's chest exploded in radiant heat, a thousand embers erupting into the night.
The attacker staggered backward — but too late.
Aash's eyes opened mid-sleep, not groggy but burning with unnatural clarity.
His body moved before he could think. The mark on his back — the Trishul — erupted into searing flame. Its arms split into three forks of light, each one piercing the attacker's limbs like spectral spears.
The assassin screamed — or tried to — but their voice was stolen by the fire.
Then came the real horror.
A third line of flame traced its way up Aash's spine and into his forehead, etching open the glowing outline of an eye.
The Third Eye blinked.
The attacker's body twisted violently, their skin cracking like baked clay. From their mouth, a black mist spilled — not smoke, but soul-ash, the residue of cursed blood.
Then they burned.
Not like wood. Like memory.
A wind rose that shouldn't have existed — and carried the ashes away into the dark.
Aash collapsed, eyes wide, chest heaving.
But in the void of unconsciousness, he heard that voice again.
His own.
Calm. Older. Unafraid.
"You can do anything now."
When he awoke, the sky was light again.
His shirt was in tatters, the fabric burned away from his back. His skin ached. Ash dusted the grass around him — all that remained of the attacker.
He sat up slowly.
Touching his forehead, he found a faint line still warm to the touch.
Not a scar. Not a wound.
A mark.
He didn't feel like himself anymore. Not fully.
But something in him — something ancient — had finally opened its eyes.
Dhaamrath swallowed him whole.
The city loomed like a fevered hallucination — gates carved from bone-white stone shaped like ribs, towering above a cracked road. At their peak, a three-faced demon grinned down — one face weeping, one laughing, one devouring its own tongue.
No guards watched the gates. But eyes did — painted, carved, living.
Within minutes, the noise became unbearable — the clash of metal on metal, the drone of street-preachers cursing "sky-born gods," the cry of beasts in cages with too many eyes.
Aash pressed forward. But he was marked. His clothes were patched, his eyes too wide. His aura — raw and spiritual — shone like a beacon to those who fed on weakness.
In a narrow street lined with broken statues and incense smoke, three men blocked his path.
"Lost, boy?" one sneered. "That bead around your neck—looks special."
Aash backed up. He could feel the fire stirring, but his body was weak. Still aching from the forest. His spirit dimmed from the dream.
One of them reached for the bead.
That's when it happened.
A blur. A shadow. A crash.
One of the men was lifted off the ground and slammed into a wall so hard his ribs cracked. The other two whirled — and found themselves face-to-face with a man taller than any of them, with arms like forged iron and eyes that didn't blink.
He said nothing. Just stared.
The muggers didn't fight. They ran.
Aash looked up, breath caught.
The man turned to him. "You're lucky I was bored."
Aash tried to respond, but the dizziness returned. His knees buckled — and the man caught him before he hit the stone.
"You reek of temple ash and something older," the man muttered. "You'll get yourself killed walking around like that."
He threw Aash's arm over his shoulder with ease.
"Come on. My inn's close. You can pass out there."
The inn stood at the end of a crooked alley, half-swallowed by creeping vines and soot. Its sign — Ashhollow Inn — hung from a chain of rusted nails. One of the lanterns had a mummified hand tied to it.
The man kicked the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and silence.
He laid Aash down on a cot in the corner, then poured water into a cracked bowl.
"Drink. Slowly. Or not at all. I don't care."
Aash looked at him, this time more clearly.
Scars across his forearms. A charm of wolf teeth around his wrist. A brand near his collarbone — half-burned, half-faded — shaped like an inverted lotus pierced by arrows.
"Who are you?" Aash asked, voice rasping.
The man smirked.
"Name's Veer. I used to kill for temples. Now I run a bar no one drinks in."
He rose, heading to the door.
"Rest. Tomorrow I'll tell you which questions not to ask in this city."
He paused before leaving.
"And if you hear someone whispering your name tonight… don't answer."