"She dances not to be seen, but to remember. And when she stops… things begin to die."
---
Asma-Ra followed the trail of pale leaves, glowing faintly under a moonless sky. The wind carried no scent. Only rhythm. Soft, like a heartbeat. Ancient, like a lullaby sung by the first mother of the world.
He reached a clearing. At its center rose a tree, older than even the Ashvattha.
This was Naṛi-Vṛksha, the Tree of the Sleepless Maiden. Its branches were bare, but its roots pulsed with living memory. Beneath it, a woman danced.
She wore no armor. No crown. Only a tattered red veil and anklets of silver bones. Her feet traced sacred mudras in the soil—each movement a story, each gesture a ward, keeping something at bay.
Asma-Ra did not speak.
To interrupt her was to shatter the world.
---
She danced the fall of the Siddhas.
She danced the first tear of the Asura who once loved a god.
She danced the memory of the sky when it forgot how to weep.
And as she danced, the illusion around her fractured.
Suddenly, Asma-Ra saw hundreds—no, thousands—of bodies hanging from the tree. Warriors. Monks. Asuras. Even gods. All bound by vines of memory, their eyes open, staring into the void she kept sealed.
The Dancer's foot slipped.
Just once.
And the illusion tore.
The silence screamed.
---
Asma-Ra rushed forward—but the Dancer did not fall.
She caught herself mid-air, and in that moment, locked eyes with him.
Her voice rang out—not as speech, but as song:
> "You seek the root. The truth beneath the curse.
But would you drink from the well if it tasted like your own blood?"
Asma-Ra replied:
> "I've already swallowed worse."
She smiled—sad, proud, weary.
And she stopped dancing.
---
The earth quaked.
A howl rose from the roots.
And something massive stirred beneath the tree, a thing that had no form—only weight, only will.
> "You have broken the rhythm," she whispered. "Now you must replace it."
She extended her hand, offering Asma-Ra the anklets.
> "Take these. Dance not with grace, but with fury. For the next step will not be beautiful—it will be war."
Asma-Ra tied the anklets to his wrists instead of his feet.
The Tree trembled once more.
From its base, a hidden stair opened—spiraling down into the Heartwood, where the ancient curse had first taken root.
---
END OF CHAPTER XII
Next: Chapter XIII – "The One Who Ate the First Light"