Ashhollow Inn creaked as it breathed.
Aash stirred in the dim cot, his limbs heavy, his skin still raw from the fire. He had slept, but not rested.
The room was quiet, yet something watched him. Not a person. Not a creature.
A memory.
Somewhere outside, bells rang — dull and mismatched, as if mocking worship.
Aash rose, groaning. The faint line on his forehead pulsed warm. The Trishul on his back itched beneath the bandages.
Veer was sitting by the window, sharpening a blade that looked older than the city itself.
"You survived the night," Veer said without turning. "That's something."
Aash sat across from him. "This city… it feels wrong. Like the ground itself is hiding something."
Veer's hand stilled. He stared at the blade's reflection for a long moment before speaking.
"Dhaamrath wasn't always like this. Once, it was sacred. Built around the River of Passage, where souls were said to cross peacefully into the next life. The priests of Vairag kept order — monks in gray who spoke only in dreams."
He leaned back, tossing the whetstone into a wooden bowl.
"But during the War of the Drowned Flame, the gods turned their eyes away. The Asura didn't conquer with swords — they came with silence. One by one, temples fell to whispers. Rituals were rewritten. Even the priests began selling paths to the afterlife like spices at market."
Aash frowned. "Why hasn't anyone stopped them?"
"Who? The gods?" Veer's laugh was bitter. "They stopped watching long before we started dying."
Aash looked out the window. "And the rest of the continent?"
Veer folded his arms. "This is Kailash, boy. The continent of Shiva. He doesn't rule like Vishnu does — there are no golden laws here. Only fire and consequence. Every major city is either under direct Asura influence or being bled from within. Some say the Asura king walks openly in the east. Others say he sits inside a sealed temple, waiting to be reborn."
He met Aash's eyes.
"But none of them burn like you do. And that's why you won't stay hidden for long."
Far from the inn, beyond the city's rotting shrines and watchful alleyways, a chamber flickered with black flames. Candles sputtered in a circle, their light strange and cold. The walls were lined with cracked masks, each whispering forgotten names.
At the center knelt a man in ash-white robes, his face hidden behind a gold-trimmed mask carved with fangs. His voice was calm, but the silence around him was devout.
"He didn't just defend himself," the cultist whispered. "He burned Himtav to dust. The Third Eye mark was real. The flame was… divine."
A ring of kneeling followers bowed lower.
The masked man stood. "So it begins. Shiva has chosen his vessel."
He lifted a smoldering censer and walked among them. "But we will not strike yet. Let him believe he is safe. Let the flame grow. In two weeks, during the Eclipse of Raitr, we move. Let him trust the fire—so we may drown it."
Back at the inn, dusk fell like a curtain. Veer poured something strong into a wooden cup, then pushed it toward Aash without a word.
"You said her soul isn't gone yet," Veer muttered. "If that's true, there's one place in this city that might still listen."
He pulled out a torn corner of parchment and etched a rough circle using the point of his dagger.
"Old quarter. Beneath the cobbled street. Temple of Vairag. Forgotten. Abandoned. Most say it's cursed. I say it's dead. Either way, you'll be alone down there."
"I have to go," Aash said without hesitation.
Veer didn't argue. He just sighed. "If something speaks your name while you're down there… you remember what I told you."
The map was burned into Aash's memory by the time he reached the edge of the broken district. Lanterns flickered with unnatural colors. No one followed him, but he felt watched. Not by people — by the stones.
The shrine had no walls now, only fragments. The archway had crumbled into ivy-choked stone, and the only door left was a half-rotted trapdoor set into the ground.
He opened it.
Stairs led down into darkness. The air shifted — cool and dry, like the breath of something long buried. He descended, one hand trailing the wall. Something ancient pulsed beneath the steps.
Symbols lined the passage — old rites carved in faded ink, most defaced. At the bottom lay a cracked sanctum, round and still. A shattered statue stood near the center — once serene, now cleaved in two. Its face was missing.
At the room's heart was a mirror basin, dry and coated in dust. But something shimmered across its surface — not water, not reflection. A memory that had not yet died.
Aash knelt, steadying his breath.
He touched the edge of the stone basin and closed his eyes.
Maahi.
For a moment — silence.
Then the surface rippled.
A face. Her face.
Crying. Voiceless. Bound by something he couldn't see. A red chain wrapped around her wrist — glowing with cursed syllables. Not metal. Language. A command branded into her soul.
Aash gasped. The mark on his back surged with fire — but this time, it didn't shield him.
It pulled.
The Third Eye flared open on his forehead. The altar shook.
And in the basin, the reflection changed.
It showed him. Older. Taller. Eyes empty. Laughing in the middle of a world on fire.
His own voice, not quite his own, whispered from the shadow of the mirror:
"You don't save souls, Aash. You cleanse them."
The flame ran wild through his spine.
He screamed—
—and collapsed beside the cracked basin, the glow on his forehead flickering like a dying star.