The oil lamps died all at once.
Not a flicker.
Not a fade.
Just—gone.
Bharat's hand was still pressed to the scroll, blood cooling on his palm like a signature the universe had decided to keep. The hall plunged into a darkness so complete it felt textured—thick, breathing, like the space between heartbeats had grown teeth.
Mira's grip on his wrist tightened.
"Don't move," she whispered.
Her voice was steady. Too steady. Like she'd rehearsed this line in a play she'd been performing for years.
"What's happening?"
"The binding."
"I already signed—"
"No."
Her breath was close. Warm against his ear in the cold, consuming dark.
"You agreed. Now it decides if you're worth keeping."
The air in the hall shifted. Not wind. Not movement. Just a change in pressure, like the room had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. Bharat's ribs ached. His lungs felt compressed, breath coming shallow and sharp.
Then—
A sound.
Not a voice. Not music.
Something between—a resonance that came from the walls, the floor, the altar beneath them. A hum that climbed up through Bharat's bones and settled in his skull like a second pulse.
The darkness... spoke.
[TEMPLE CONTRACT SYSTEM: INITIATED]
The words didn't appear on a screen. They manifested—carved into the air itself in lines of cold white fire that hung suspended like frozen lightning. Each letter sharp enough to cut, bright enough to burn afterimages into Bharat's vision.
Mira let go of his wrist.
Stepped back.
Bharat stared at the floating script, heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack a rib.
"What—"
[BINDING RECOGNIZED: BHARAT RAO]
[STATUS: GROOM / PROXY / DEBT INHERITOR]
[TRIAL PERIOD: 30 DAYS]
[FAILURE CONDITION: MUTUAL TERMINATION]
[COLLATERAL DAMAGE: AUTHORIZED]
The last line pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat confirming a death sentence.
"Collateral damage?" Bharat's voice came out strangled. "What does that mean?"
Mira's silhouette was a shadow against the glowing text, her face unreadable in the cold light.
"It means the contract doesn't just bind you and me."
"It binds everyone we've ever touched."
Bharat's stomach dropped.
"My mother—"
"Yes."
"She's not part of this—"
"She is now."
Mira's tone was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like she was reading terms and conditions at a funeral.
"The contract ensures compliance through leverage. If we fail, it doesn't just erase us. It erases everyone who matters to us."
Bharat's vision blurred at the edges.
His mother. Alone in a hospital bed. Breathing on machines he'd just paid for with blood he couldn't take back.
"That's—"
"Insurance," Mira finished quietly. "The old families don't trust vows. They trust stakes."
The script in the air flickered, then expanded—new lines crawling into existence like veins spreading through glass.
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE THE TRIAL]
[SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE RIVAL CLAIMANTS]
[TERTIARY OBJECTIVE: SECURE TEMPLE DOMINION]
[FAILURE PENALTY: TOTAL ERASURE]
[COUNTDOWN INITIATED]
[29 DAYS : 23 HOURS : 47 MINUTES REMAINING]
The numbers burned bright, then began to tick—seconds peeling away like skin from a wound, each one a small death Bharat could feel happening in real time.
"What trial?" he demanded, voice raw. "What do I have to do?"
The robed figure stepped forward from the shadows—Bharat hadn't even noticed them still standing there, silent as a gravestone.
"The trial," they intoned, "is survival."
"For thirty days, you are both hunted and hunter. The temple's law is clear: only one lineage may hold dominion. Your marriage makes you a claimant."
"And claimants," Mira added softly, "don't retire. They win. Or they disappear."
Bharat's fists clenched.
"You knew."
It wasn't a question.
Mira met his eyes. In the cold light of the floating script, her face looked carved from marble—beautiful, remote, untouchable.
"I knew."
"And you didn't think to warn me?"
"Would you have signed if I had?"
Bharat opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because the answer was no, and they both knew it.
"You used me," he said quietly.
"Yes."
No apology. No regret. Just the flat acknowledgment of someone who'd learned long ago that guilt was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"Why?"
For the first time, something flickered in her eyes. Not warmth. Just... recognition. Like she'd asked herself the same question and hated the answer.
"Because I'm tired of being the sacrifice."
She stepped closer. Close enough he could see the faint tremor in her hands—small, controlled, like a crack in porcelain you only noticed when the light hit it right.
"Every seven years, the temple demands a bride. Someone to carry the debts. Someone to die so the family stays clean."
"I've been that bride for fourteen years, Bharat."
"Twice."
The words landed like stones into still water.
"You survived," Bharat said.
"Barely."
She turned away, arms wrapping around herself like she was trying to hold something in—or keep something out.
"The first time, I didn't understand the rules. I fought. I lost. The contract took everything I had—my name, my memories, even the ability to leave the temple grounds. I became... hollow."
"The second time, I learned. I played the game. I survived by making someone else the target."
"And this time?"
Mira looked back at him. Her smile was sharp. Bitter.
"This time, I brought a partner."
Bharat's throat tightened.
"You're using me as a shield."
"I'm using you as a chance," she corrected. "The contract says we both fail or both survive. For the first time in my life, I'm not alone in this."
"So you dragged me into hell with you."
"Yes."
She said it like a confession and a challenge both.
"And if I refuse to play?"
The floating script pulsed—angry, insistent.
[REFUSAL = BREACH OF CONTRACT]
[PENALTY: IMMEDIATE TERMINATION + COLLATERAL EXECUTION]
Bharat stared at the words. At the countdown still ticking down like a bomb he couldn't defuse.
Twenty-nine days.
His mother had maybe two weeks without the machines. The money he'd gotten—the half they'd given him—would buy her time. But if he failed...
If he failed, the contract would take her anyway.
"This is insane," he muttered.
"Yes," Mira agreed.
"There's no way out."
"No."
"And you're okay with this?"
She tilted her head, considering.
"I stopped being okay with things a long time ago, Bharat. Now I just survive."
The robed figure clapped their hands once—a sharp, ritualistic sound that echoed in the dark like a gavel closing a case.
"The system is active. The trial has begun."
They gestured toward the corridor that led deeper into the temple.
"You may leave. But know this: from this moment forward, you are marked. The rival families will sense it. They will come."
"How many families?" Bharat asked.
"Seven major lineages. Twelve minor branches. All of them want what you just claimed."
"Which is?"
The robed figure's eyes glinted in the cold light.
"Control of the temple. And the power it holds."
"What power?"
Mira laughed—short, humorless.
"You'll find out. If you live long enough."
The floating script began to fade, letters dissolving like ash in wind. The countdown remained, burned into Bharat's vision like a scar.
29 days. 23 hours. 41 minutes.
The lamps reignited all at once—golden, warm, almost mocking in their sudden cheerfulness.
Bharat blinked, eyes adjusting. The hall looked the same. The altar. The dais. The red-threaded scroll now rolled up and tucked into the robed figure's sleeves like evidence being filed away.
But he felt different.
Like something had been written into his skin. Branded. Claimed.
"Go home," the robed figure said gently. "Rest. Tomorrow, you attend the family banquet."
"Banquet?"
Mira sighed.
"The wedding reception. Where the family officially welcomes you."
The way she said welcomes made it sound like an execution with champagne.
"And if I don't go?"
"Then they'll come to you. And trust me—you want witnesses when they start testing you."
Bharat looked at her. At the cold, controlled mask she wore like armor.
"Why aren't you scared?"
For a moment, the mask cracked.
"I am," she said quietly. "I'm just better at hiding it than you."
She turned and walked toward the exit, footsteps echoing in the vast, breathing silence of the hall.
Over her shoulder, she said:
"Try to sleep, Bharat. Tomorrow, you meet the people who want us dead."
"How comforting."
"It's not meant to be."
She disappeared into shadow.
Bharat stood there, alone except for the robed figure who watched him with eyes that looked like they'd seen this scene play out a thousand times.
"One question," Bharat said.
"Ask."
"Why did the system choose me? Why not someone stronger? Smarter?"
The robed figure smiled. It didn't reach their eyes.
"Because the system doesn't want strong, Bharat Rao."
"It wants desperate."
"And desperate people do desperate things."
They gestured toward the door.
"Go. The countdown doesn't pause for doubt."
Bharat walked out into the night.
The city air hit him like a slap—warm, humid, smelling of exhaust and fried food and a thousand small lives being lived in the cracks between buildings.
He pulled out his phone.
One message. From the hospital.
"Oxygen restored. Payment received. Your mother is stable."
Relief flooded through him—sharp, painful, like blood returning to a limb that had fallen asleep.
She was safe.
For now.
He looked up at the temple behind him—old stone and new steel, gods and algorithms married into one monstrous hybrid.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt it.
The countdown.
Ticking.
Ticking.
Ticking.
And beneath it—
A sound like laughter.
Distant.
Patient.
Waiting.
[END OF CHAPTER 3]