The aqueduct creaked under Shaurya's footsteps.
He came in silence, his lean figure shrouded in shadows as he guided his band through the fissured underside of the Diamond Table. Cold water still hung upon its walls, the rot of years past seeping in the stone. Music danced above them—sarangi and veena trilling in rivalry with nobles' laughter. The banquet had commenced.
Mira crept behind him, her breath steady. Udai followed, tense but focused. With them were two of Shaurya's slum-born allies—Bhuvan and Kiri, hardened survivors armed with scavenged blades.
At a junction, Shaurya halted, his hand raised.
A new current pulsed below. The air tasted…wrong. Bitter and iron-thick.
"We're near," Shaurya whispered. "This is where the veins of Ashwan rot."
Mira gripped the cloth bag tied to her back—a stash of salves, herbs, and bandages. She was not to fight tonight, but to heal. To get to the ones still alive, still redeemable.
Shaurya stood up to Udai. "Go. Take the east stair. Sound the alarm in the gallery. Let it be loud."
Udai swallowed a lump, but nodded. "Don't initiate the war without me."
Shaurya gave a half-smile, a rare thing. "Save a seat."
Udai disappeared into the shadows.
Mira looked at Shaurya. "And we?"
"We bring fire to the bones of this monster."
He pushed on. The aqueduct soon yielded to a tunnel hewn from stone, veins of mantra-stone glowing softly along the walls. The air changed, and then—an opening. A ledge. Below, Paatal Rasoi lay like a hidden palace.
Mira drew a sharp breath.
There were individuals—dozens. Caged, tied, immobilized in sadistic devices of mantra restraint. Some were motionless. Others twitched feebly. Cries of agony undulated in the darkness like dying melodies.
Shaurya turned to her. "Go among them."
She hesitated for a second—then nodded. "Take care."
He brushed her shoulder lightly, a soldier's show of confidence.
Then he plunged down into the belly of hell.
Mira hurried, catching her breath as she wove between the slabs and holding racks. Incense, blood, and terror hung in the air. Eyes flickered open as she passed—red eyes, broken eyes, spirit-touched eyes.
She came to a boy first. Ten years old, at most. His limbs shook furiously, his skin crisscrossed with sigil-burns. She pressed a damp cloth against his forehead.
"Shhh. you're safe now."
A mutter slipped from him. "Am I dead?"
Mira blinked back tears. "No. You're alive. I'm here."
She cut his bindings, gently cradling him to keep him from collapsing. Behind her, another moan sounded. A woman, ribs showing through torn robes, bound in a metal ring engraved with living mantra.
Mira approached and whispered a prayer. "Bless the light within her. Let it survive this dark."
She opened her satchel. Salve. Bandage. Knife.
The ghosts burned around her—trailing energies left by the mantra plates—but Mira cared about only the living. The ones not yet claimed by the darkness.
She released three more. Two children and a man, all too weak to stand. She flowed like water, gentle but unyielding.
Upstairs, the noise of combat grew louder.
And Mira continued whispering, calming, sewing. Keeping life intact in a room designed for death.
Shaurya tore down the corridor like a whirlwind of vines and retribution.
Laughter welled in the Diamond Table.
Aromatic air swirled with sandalwood, jasmine, and honey wine. Courtiers sipped from gem-studded goblets. Dancers glided like fire along marble walks, and musicians sounded ragas that sang of ancient wars and forbidden love affairs.
At its center, Rasmika Bhujraj sat, blazing in sapphire silk, her earrings moons, paired together. Her hair was wound up in a grand knot, silver streaks adding wisdom to its beauty. She observed all. Spoke little.
Chirag came near, bearing wine.
"My lady," he bowed halfway, "you do us an honor by sitting here."
She smiled coldly. "And you entertain with such panache, Lord Chirag. Your table glows. But do your cellars?"
He blinked. "I… beg your pardon?"
She rose slowly, her glass upraised. The room dropped into silence.
"To our honored guest, Lord Chirag Mithra," she announced. "Who has not only graced us with banquet and music—but also hidden great secrets beneath our feet."
There were murmurs.
Rasmika's eyes sparkled. "To Paatal Rasoi," she said loudly. "To the whispers. The screams. The dead who walk."
Chirag's grin split.
"You… know."
"I am Bhujraj," she replied. "And this is my table. Did you think I would not notice rot beneath my own floorboards?"
Chirag attempted speech. Could not.
Rasmika leaned closer. Her voice was silk soaked in steel. "Tonight, you eat in my home. Tomorrow, you face my justice.
The hall erupted into pandemonium.
Below, Shaurya prowled through the wreckage. The secret was reduced to dust.
Mira had saved countless—countless enough to ignore no longer. The secret was ash.
He discovered the central staircase and ascended.
At the top, a gold-lined corridor lay in wait. And then—
A door swung open.
Chirag Mithra emerged, gasping, robes disheveled. The noble mask was gone. Behind him, guards staggered.
Shaurya stood in the corridor.
"Going somewhere?" he asked icily.
Chirag's eyes widened. "You—"
Shaurya advanced, vines wrapping his fists.
But Chirag grasped something.
A fresh mantra plate—blood red, pulsating like an open wound.
"I don't have to flee," Chirag said. "You entered my web."
He bashed the plate to the ground.
The walls howled.
Chirag's guards were more heavily armed this time. They wore peculiar armor—darkened metal shot through with shimmering mantra-wires. One lifted a spear and bellowed—
Shaurya ducked low, palm slapping against the floor. Roots burst upwards, knotting the man half-step and pulling him into the stone wall. Another swung a hammer, but Shaurya deflected it with a twisting vine and turned it against him.
Blood spurted. Screams rang out.
The central lab lay before him.
He charged in—and halted.
There were three of them. The Bound.
Half-spirit, half-man. Floating. Flaring. Eyes blazing with mantra light, sewn mouths screaming through the air itself.
One struck. Shaurya sidestepped just in time, its ethereal claws raking against his aura shield.
"Astral mantra constructs." he whispered.
The room answered them. Plates on the ground pulsed—nourishing them. Ground beams. Basis. Connection.
Shaurya bellowed and struck one with his fist. His vines followed, ensnaring the spirit form, constricting it, crackling, and imploding.
Two more progressive.
Bhuvan approached from behind. "These creatures—what are they?!"
"Worse than death," Shaurya retorted. "Cut the plates. Sever the feed!"
Kiri threw a stone at one of the floor discs. It shattered—and the closest Bound shrieked, contorting in pain before dissolving.
Shaurya pressed on the last. "Come, then," he breathed, "face the forest."
Dozen vines burst around him, flowering with crimson thorns. They ensnared the spirit as it flew—twisting, crushing, and in the end… silencing it.
Silence had returned.
For now.