Kampot baked under a white sun. The humidity had mass; it pressed against the skin, slicking arms with sweat within seconds of stepping outside.
Three days had passed since the zoo.
Aryan stood on a rickety wooden stool in the center of The Spice Route's open-air kitchen. He held a screwdriver, the metal warm in his grip. Above him, a stubborn ceiling fan hung askew, its motor housing cracked.
"Hold it steady," Meera said. She stood below, bracing the stool's legs.
Aryan reached up. He twisted the housing. Rust flaked down, peppering his hair. He ignored it. He aligned the bolt, applied torque, and locked the fan back into its groove.
"Try it," he said.
Meera flipped the switch near the tandoor. The fan groaned, hesitated, then spun. A cool breeze cut through the heavy smell of frying garlic and turmeric.
"You're handy," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Better than the local repairman. He usually just hits it with a sandal."
Aryan stepped down. He folded the stool. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "Percussive maintenance doesn't work on bearings."
He moved to the delivery entrance. A stack of rice sacks sat by the door. Aryan walked over. He grabbed two sacks in each hand. Two hundred pounds. He lifted them. No grunt. No strain. His spine stayed straight. He carried them to the pantry, stacking them in neat rows.
He came back out, dusting his hands.
Meera watched him from the counter. She poured a glass of water, ice clinking against the rim. She slid it across the wood. "Drink."
Aryan took the glass. He downed it in one long pull.
He leaned against the counter. The tension that usually defined him—the coiled spring of a soldier waiting for an ambush—had loosened. His shoulders sat lower. His eyes tracked the riverboats drifting on the Kampot River, not scanning for snipers, just watching the wake curl against the mud banks.
He looked at Meera. She chopped onions, the knife rhythm steady. Chop. Chop. Chop.
For the first time in years, the noise in his head—the screams of the dead, the static of the mission—faded. The silence here had a texture. It smelled of river mud and crushed cardamom.
Two hundred yards away. The roof of the abandoned colonial post office.
Silas sat cross-legged on the edge of the parapet, peeling an orange. The wind whipped his coat around him. He held nothing in his hands. He didn't need binoculars. The Veil layered over his vision, a second eyelid that turned the world into a map of energy signatures.
He saw the Spice Route. He saw the blue-white aura of Aryan—steady, dense, like a coiled spring. And he saw the soft, golden pulse of the girl next to him.
The voices in his head chattered. A thousand whispers overlapped, but one distinct tone cut through the static. The Entity.
The boy changes, the Voice rasped. It sounded curious, not mocking. The resonance is shifting. He is… anchoring.
Silas popped an orange slice into his mouth. "He's not anchoring. He's breathing. Let the kid have a moment."
He softens. The girl makes him vulnerable.
Silas stopped chewing. He watched the blue aura lean closer to the golden one. "Yeah. She does. That's the problem."
The enemy will see it. The dark is drawn to the light.
"I know," Silas said, his voice losing its humor. He stood up, wiping his hands on his coat. "Which means I have to be the responsible adult. Again."
The Bungalow. Night.
Aryan pushed the door open. He looked… lighter. The weight of the world seemed to have slipped off his shoulders, left somewhere by the riverbank.
"You're late," Silas said. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by candles, cleaning a deck of tarot cards.
"I lost track of time," Aryan said, closing the door.
"You were playing house." Silas didn't look up. "I saw you. Fixing fans. Lifting heavy things. You looked like a golden retriever who just found a tennis ball."
Aryan rolled his eyes, walking to the sink. "It's peaceful, Silas. She treats me like a person."
"She treats you like a person because she doesn't know you're a walking tank," Silas grinned. But then his smile faded. He stood up and walked over to Aryan, leaning against the wall.
"Listen, kid. I'm not telling you to stop. God knows you need the break. But you know what we are. We are lightning rods. We attract storms."
Aryan stopped washing his face. He looked at Silas in the mirror. "I know."
"If we are here, eventually they—the Syndicate, the Shadows—will be here too. And she…" Silas gestured vaguely toward the river. "She breaks easily."
Aryan turned around. "I can protect her."
"You can't be everywhere," Silas said gently. "You have to sleep. You have missions. Who watches her then?"
Silas reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet pouch. He tossed it to Aryan.
Aryan caught it. He opened the drawstring. Inside lay a pendant. It was simple—a smooth, polished piece of moonstone wrapped in silver wire. It didn't look ominous; it looked serene. It hummed with a faint, warm vibration.
"What is this?"
"A gift," Silas said. "From your favorite occultist."
Aryan looked closer. Inside the milky stone, two tiny points of light danced. They looked like fireflies, swirling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"Spirits?" Aryan asked.
"Guardians," Silas corrected. "Not the nasty kind. These are… let's call them 'Watchers.' They are pure protective energy. I bound them to the stone myself."
"What do they do?"
"They sleep," Silas explained. "Until they sense hostile intent. If anyone tries to hurt her, they wake up. They create a kinetic barrier—a shield. It won't hold off an army, but it will stop a bullet or a claw long enough for you to get there."
Silas tapped his ear. "And they scream. A frequency only we can hear. If that stone activates, we will know instantly."
Aryan looked at the pendant. It felt warm in his hand, comforting. "Silas… thank you."
Silas waved a hand dismissively. "Don't get mushy on me. I just don't want you distracted by worry during training. Now go. Give it to her before I change my mind and sell it on eBay."
The next evening. The riverbank.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the water in shades of violet and gold. The air cooled, finally breathable.
Meera sat on the stone steps leading down to the water. Aryan sat beside her. He kept a respectful distance, but the silence between them was comfortable now.
"You're quiet today," Meera said.
"Thinking," Aryan said.
He reached into his pocket. The moonstone felt warm against his fingers.
"I have something for you," Aryan said.
Meera turned. Her eyes widened slightly as he held out the pendant. The silver chain caught the last light of the day.
"Aryan…"
"It's a… souvenir," he said, stumbling over the words. "From my travels. It's supposed to be lucky. For protection."
Meera took it gently. She held it up. The stone seemed to glow from within, the tiny lights dancing invisibly to her eyes.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It looks like a piece of the moon."
"Wear it," Aryan said softly. "Please. Just… keep it close."
Meera smiled. She turned around, gathering her hair to one side, exposing her neck. "Help me?"
Aryan's hands, usually instruments of violence, were steady and gentle as he fastened the clasp. The pendant settled against her throat, glowing faintly.
"Thank you," she said, turning back to face him. Her hand touched the stone.
High above, Silas watched through the Veil. He saw the spirits inside the stone settle, wrapping a faint, invisible golden shield around the girl.
"Safe," Silas whispered to himself. Then he grinned. "Now back to work, kid."