Dhaamrath slept beneath a bruised sky.
The stars were dull. The wind sharp. Even the bells on the temple ruins had stopped ringing.
Aash moved through the silent streets with measured steps, his spear wrapped in cloth, eyes sharp. Two weeks had passed since Veer took him in from the ruins of Vairag, and since then, every breath, strike, and spark of fire had been carved into him through discipline. He had trained until his hands bled and the whispers inside him dulled.
He hadn't told Veer where he was going tonight.
But the training was over.
And he needed to know what he had become.
The entrance to the temple loomed ahead — half-swallowed by ivy, its trapdoor broken and charred. He didn't plan to go down again. Just to stand near it. To see if something stirred. To see if her voice returned. Part of him hoped it wouldn't. Another part was already listening.
A footstep broke the silence.
Then another.
Five figures stepped from the shadows, masked and cloaked in rust-red robes. Each moved with unnatural precision, as if guided by a rhythm only they could hear. They didn't speak. They didn't threaten.
They moved.
Aash lowered the cloth from his spear and fell into stance, breath held at the bottom of his ribs. His pulse slowed. He had prepared for this.
The first attacker came fast — twin daggers in a dancer's grip and a chestplate polished like glass. The Mirror-Bearer. Aash stepped off the line, letting the blade graze his sleeve, then spun behind the figure. A twist of the spear, a clean upward strike into the ribs — the mask cracked with the chest beneath it. The cultist fell before he touched the ground.
The second leapt with a jagged sickle, red syllables glowing from his tongue with every breath. The Chainspeaker. Aash turned the blade with the shaft, grounded his feet, and let a thin line of fire whisper from his palm.
Not rage. Not panic.
Control.
The flame traced the sickle like a tongue and swallowed the man's arm in gold. He dropped, screaming, writhing in the dust.
Then the world bent.
A third figure whispered, and the stones warped. A rush of cursed wind slammed into Aash's side, stealing breath and balance. He hit one knee. A fourth emerged from the fog behind him — a veiled cultist cloaked in layered cloth, the voice that came from behind the mask eerily familiar.
"Save me, Aash," it said — Maahi's voice.
The Twin-Tongue.
He froze.
The mark on Aash's forehead pulsed.
The Third Eye opened.
He didn't scream.
He didn't breathe.
The light burst outward — silent, golden, and searing.
The Hollowed Eye, the curse-weaver who had warped the air, disintegrated mid-step, robes crumbling with him. The Twin-Tongue caught fire from the inside. Her mask melted as she tried to flee, crawling backward into ash.
Four were gone.
But the fifth remained.
Taller. Broader. Veiled in silver chains.
The Second Flame.
He stepped forward slowly, his glaive dragging behind him with a sound like a distant bell. Aash's knees trembled. The fire inside him didn't scream this time.
It listened.
Aash braced the spear.
The Second Flame moved.
Chains sang. Wind split.
Steel met steel.
The glaive came down like judgment. Aash blocked by instinct, sparks flashing. He twisted, shoved forward, struck at the center — but too slow. A backhand from the Second Flame slammed into his ribs, lifting him off his feet.
Stone kissed his skull.
Darkness.
When his eyes opened again, he was half somewhere else. Not awake. Not asleep. He couldn't feel the spear in his hand, or the ground beneath him. Shadows moved like breath. There were chains around his limbs, or maybe just the weight of exhaustion. Voices murmured behind walls that weren't real.
It felt like he had been taken.
And somewhere, something was waiting for him to wake.