Ashwan's slums, warmed by the gentle gold of early morning sunlight, had been transformed.
There was no more smoke curling from secret flames. Scream had given way to whisper, and whisper to song. Nowhere and everywhere, children laughed barefoot in the alleys that before knew only terror. Tents made of rag and stick swarmed with subdued life—some housing three generations of blood, others providing shelter to strangers who now called one another family.
Closest to the well in the middle of the slum, a thin man with soot-blackened cheeks wept into the arms of an old woman he referred to as "Amma," even though she had no sons of her own. Next to them, a little girl presented a bowl of rice to a man whose leg was broken, addressing him as "Dadaji" with such assurance it could've deceived the gods themselves.
These weren't reunions of blood. They were ties made in agony—iron forged into steel. They weren't families by name, but in each tear, each meal eaten together, each hand laid upon another's shoulder, the reality sounded out above any surname.
Near this warmth, Udai stood rigidly beside a tattered tent, arms folded, eyes scanning across the renewed tumult.
Shaurya, with his frayed turban once again wrapped around his head, knelt down to instruct a young boy in how to hold a splintered wooden staff like a spear. The weary smile of the old general was real.
Udai finally spoke.
"We've lingered too long," he grumbled. "With each passing hour we remain here, we are at risk of being discovered. What if someone sees you? Or me?"
Shaurya didn't glance up. "These people took time. Time to recall who they are."
"They'll die remembering it if we're discovered!" Udai snapped, striding forward. His voice increased in volume. "You're not some anonymous old man—they'll come searching! And if they catch us, they'll reduce this place to ashes."
A whisper intervened between them.
"Shhh! You'll wake Rishi."
Mira stepped out from behind a tattered curtain of fabric that was their impromptu shelter, cradling the boy's head in her lap. She rocked him slowly, her hand stroking through his unkempt hair. Her smile was weary, but wicked.
"You're as loud as a dying camel, Udai."
Udai glared at her, his jaw set.
"You think this is funny? We can't defend them if we're dead!"
"And what's your strategy?" Mira asked, cocking her head. "Leave them once more? Slip away at night like you slipped away from the palace, acting as if you're the only one who exists?"
Shaurya's gaze shifted to Udai. The words hurt more because they were accurate.
Mira softened. She stroked Rishi's cheek with her fingers and gazed up.
"You want to run. Fine. But if you're looking for a reason to stay, look around. These people still believe in something. Maybe it's not a throne. Maybe it's not blood. But it's real."
Udai stared at her, then at the faces around him—strangers laughing like siblings, broken people carrying each other like lifelines.
His fists were clenched, jaw set, Udai stormed off—past the tattered tents, past the giggling children, past Shaurya standing in silence, observing him leave.
The sun was already up, casting his shadow long down the slum's rough paths, but he didn't halt. Not when a girl held out a flower. Not when an old man stretched out his hands to bless him.
By the time Udai vanished behind the dusty alleyways leading out of the slums, Mira let out a slow sigh.
Shaurya finally spoke, his voice low.
"He's his mother's son. Fire first, reflection later."
Mira smiled faintly, brushing Rishi's forehead.
"He's also your son. Which means he'll come back when he remembers who he is."
Shaurya didn't reply.
Remote from Ashwan, the earth stretched emerald sea–wave on wave of waving grasses shuddered in the breeze. Above, the sky was big and unblemished, clouds sweeps of paint across its soft blue fabric. Sunlight danced on dewy blades, colouring fields gold with each breath.
A chariot ripped through this dream world—a beautiful creature of art, surrounded by four white horses, their silver armor shining in the sunlight. The carriage itself was made of sandalwood and dark iron, fashioned like the body of a lion in sleep. Red curtains embroidered with golden seals carried the emblem of Mithra Rajya: a shining sun encircled by serpents.
Its spirit-forged steel wheels glided silently over the ground, propelled by unseen powers. Inside, the aroma of attar and aged parchment wafted through the air.
Seated within was Dhairyaveer Mithra, Lord of Mithra Rajya.
His presence emanated calm authority—gray-streaked hair, robes of imperial blue and black obsidian, rings on each finger, each vibrating softly with power. Before him lounged a younger man, crossed legs, arms behind his head, the very epitome of dangerous ease.
Chirag Mithra.
Dhairyaveer sat with a scroll in one hand but was staring at Chirag.
"How many so far?" he queried without looking up.
Chirag grinned. "A little more than three hundred. Mostly Ashwan and villages in the west of the desert. The slum paths are particularly productive. No one wants to inquire about vermin going missing."
Dhairyaveer unrolled the scroll slowly, his face inscrutable.
"And no loose ends?"
"Of course not," Chirag said with a semi-salute. "I trained the curs myself. No witnesses, no survivors. Just like the old battles.
Dhairyaveer gave him a long, cold look. "This isn't a war, Chirag. It's research."
Chirag's smirk deepened. "That depends on your definition of war, uncle. You're the one trying to invent a mantra that bends spirit and blood alike. That doesn't sound peaceful to me."
There was a flicker of amusement in Dhairyaveer's eye.
"This new mantra. if successful, it won't merely bend. It will command. A whole generation of Spirit Warriors, born compliant, tempered in design. And none will ask whom they follow."
"And the test subjects?" Chirag whispered, voice dropping. "How many more do you require?"
Dhairyaveer rolled out a new scroll, emblazoned with arcane glyphs—sigils linking spirit to marrow, glyphs inscribed in dead languages.
At least two hundred more. Healthy, diverse. I want children, elders, and those with spirit potential untapped. Particularly from the desert-blooded tribes."
Chirag nodded, and then yawned.
"You're constructing an empire out of corpses, uncle. It's wonderful. And frightening."
"That's the cost of a flawless future," Dhairyaveer replied serenely.
Beyond, the chariot rumbled on through the endless fields, gilded wheels whispering secrets to the grass.
The moon rose above the spiky rooftops of Ashwan, bathing the dusty alleys in pale light as Udai Kesari walked quickly through the slum's sleeping veins. His footsteps were soundless but determined, his thoughts turbulent. The fiery argument with Shaurya lingered in his ears — the sting of being spoken to as a careless child, the burden of playing someone he was not.
He drew his hood closer, shrouding the hard angles of royalty under a veil of mud and humility. But no camouflage could quiet the rage in his breast — not against Shaurya, nor even Mira, but against the unseen decay he sensed under Ashwan's weathered hide.
He walked through crumbling walls where children huddled beside vacant pots. A young man sat next to an old woman, gently brushing her tangled white hair. Udai stood still, observing. These weren't images of despair — they were tenuous strands of hope, frantically stitched between misery. But the compassion was too neat, too abrupt.
Something had changed in Ashwan's slums recently. And it wasn't clemency.
He came to a darkened corner at the top of the slum — the very place where Mira had told him that men had disappeared years ago. Now, it was crowded with soft noises, candles, and more faces than were familiar to him.
Udai hid behind a shattered stone pillar, observing.
Foreigners in civilian dress — not slum dwellers — carried boxes into a signless warehouse. He saw unusual tools draped from belts. Not weapons, but medical equipment. One of them, a bald man with a snake tattoo around his neck, shouted commands in a cipher-like cadence. They weren't smugglers.
They belonged to something else.
Just as Udai was going to edge nearer, he heard the unmistakable sound of a spirit-forged lock clicking shut. The crates bore symbols — angular, geometric markings glowing dimly in the moonlight.
Mantras.
He froze, caught breath.
These weren't merely labor traffickers. This was organized spirit experimentation.
His thoughts whirled. Could Rasmika Bhujraj really be responsible for this? No… it's too clandestine, too militarized.
He had turned to depart when he saw a slum child — no more than ten — huddled against the crates, her eyes opened wide in curiosity. One of the smugglers saw her.
"Hey!"
Before the man could attack, Udai burst from the shadows and scooped up the girl in his arms. He bounded into the alley and ran between shattered buildings. Shouts followed him.
But Udai didn't glance behind.
Before he could make it back to the safe area, the girl had fallen asleep in his arms. Her cheek was against his shoulder, peaceful — as if under the care of more than mere hands.
Shaurya stood by the fire, one eye squinted with suspicion as well as worry.
"You went back there," he whispered.
Udai didn't say anything initially. He placed the girl softly close to Mira's blanket and stood up.
"I witnessed men. bringing crates into a spirit-forged storehouse. Not the city guard. Not locals either. Mantras were involved. And they weren't afraid of being seen."
Shaurya's brow creased. "You think it's related to the disappearances?"
"I think it's worse than we thought," Udai said grimly. "And someone high up is ensuring no one talks."
They both looked toward the fire, silence heavy between them.
"Tomorrow," Shaurya said, "we dig deeper. But no more lone ventures. You're still the Crown Prince, even in rags."
Udai gave a half-smile. "You're still an old general pretending to be a slum ghost."
Shaurya chuckled lowly. "Touché."