The wind tears across the endless blue as Mike cuts through the upper air currents, wings stretched wide, the ocean beneath him. His scales glint faintly in the sunlight, his massive dragon form gliding effortlessly above the expanse of ocean below. Each wingbeat shakes the air, each exhale leaving a faint shimmer of heat in the sky.
Binyai clings to his shoulder, his fur whipping wildly in the wind. "You've been flying for hours, Mike. You can't just—"
The world answers him before Mike can.
A sound erupts and fills the air.
The sound hits low, deep, and impossibly vast. The ocean below shudders as waves rise from the vibrations in the air, spreading in all directions.
Mike jerks mid-flight, his wings locking instinctively. The air buckles around him, and for a second, he drops several feet before stabilizing.
"What the fuck is that!"
Another blast follows. Then another.
The sounds begin overlapping and ringing from every direction, shaking not only the air but the very sky itself. The sea froths and churns beneath him as if trying to escape the noise. His chest vibrates from the pressure.
Binyai screams over the wind. "Trumpets? Out here?"
The final note echoes across the world, then dies.
Silence.
Only the crash of waves remains.
Mike hovers, wings beating slow and heavy, scanning the horizon. His ears ring, but he feels something beneath the sound. A tremor through his body, his senses warn him of danger.
Then Bahamut's voice cuts through the static in his head, deep and thunderous, echoing in his mind.
"The pit has opened."
Mike's stomach knots. "What?"
"Abbadon has been summoned."
The words drop like molten iron in his chest. For a moment, he says nothing. The sea rolls below, the sky dimming as clouds stretch thin against the dying light.
Binyai's claws dig into Mike's shoulder. "The angels move to destroy everyone! This is not good! Do you know where he was summoned?"
Bahamut's tone is grim, older than fear itself. "The feathered bats summoned him to fight in front of the temple. That insidious bat who aimed to destroy you made a move and now faces Abbadon. Find the Primordials chosen before he finds you."
Mike's jaw tightens. His wings flare wide. "Then I'd better move."
"Go."
Mike's feels his body tense and flaps his massive wings at full force. He roars, the sound swallowed by the wind, and takes off.
The ocean becomes a blur beneath him as he propels forward, faster and faster. The shockwave of his descent leaves a trail of steam in his wake. Binyai clings tighter, eyes wide and glowing faintly.
Hours blur together. The sky shifts from blue to amber, then crimson. Land emerges ahead, a vast, golden expanse stretching endlessly to the horizon.
Western Sahara.
Mike slows as he crosses the coastline, wings beating against the hot desert wind. The sun hangs low, bleeding into the dunes. The air shimmers with heat, each ripple of sand glowing like molten glass. The ocean behind him burns orange with the last light of day.
He lands atop a tall dune, sand swirling around his feet. His body hums with power and exhaustion. The scent of dust, heat, and something faintly wrong fills his lungs.
Binyai jumps down, scanning the horizon. "We made it. We do not have time for hunting. I feel a prescence to the southeast. We should start there"
Mike doesn't answer. His eyes narrow as he looks east. The desert stretches for miles, and in the far distance, the air bends like a reflection on water, except the light is wrong.
A black ripple twists in the distance, undulating like heat haze but darker with an absence of color.
Bahamut's voice rumbles through the stillness.
"The second night begins."
Mike's gaze hardens. "Second night?"
"Not your fight yet. Go, hatchling. Find the Primordials before the third night falls."
The words vibrate in his mind. The air grows colder despite the heat.
He hesitates only for a breath. Then pain lances through his mind, a roar so loud it nearly knocks him from his feet.
"GO NOW!"
Bahamut's voice rips through his consciousness, leaving nothing but instinct behind.
Mike's wings unfurl in a single motion, the air exploding around him as he launches into the darkening sky.
The sun dips below the horizon. The first stars blink into existence pale and distant. The desert glows faintly beneath them, an ocean of shifting silver dunes. Mike flies fast, low, the sand whipping in his wake. His eyes burn crimson and gold as he cuts through the twilight, chasing the feeling of essence that shivers across the horizon.
The world below is silent.
But high above him, something stirs.
A pale figure hovers in the upper air, barely visible against the fading light. Its body is smooth and white as bone, its eyes faint pinpricks of silver. Six massive wings spread behind it, black feathers tipped with shadow.
It watches the dragon's descent, unmoving.
Then, as the stars brighten overhead, the figure's lips curve into a faint smile.
Without a sound, it begins to follow.
The air above India burns red.
Smoke and cinders drift over the blackened plains as a storm of wings and claws moves west, an army of demons march in endless ranks, stretching from horizon to horizon. Their feet crush the bones of those left behind when the chosen disappeared.
Above them, the sky pulses with faint black veins, traces of the fissure that had opened days before.
The leading ranks snarl and growl, their bodies hunched and sinewed. Horns curl from foreheads, tusks pierce through rotting lips, and chains drag across the ground with every step. Great banners of flayed skin flutter in the wind, symbols of
They move with a goal of destruction towards Mumbai.
Once, the city was a jewel, alive with the rhythm of millions. Now, its skyline flickers like dying candles. Smoke curls from cracked high-rises, and fires burn unchecked along the coast. The roads are split open by quakes and bombardments from the sky. Entire districts lie empty, drowned in shadow.
At the edge of the ruined city, the first waves of demons stop. The stench of the sea and charred flesh fills the air.
The wind changes.
From the east, a sound echoes, faint at first, a rhythm of drums, slow and steady.
Navratri has begun again.
The second night.
Far within the heart of the fractured city, small fires burn in courtyards and on rooftops. The survivors, handfuls of families, priests, and refugees gather around the faint glow of lamps. They are thin, hollow-eyed, but unbroken. Women dressed in tattered saris dance barefoot around the fires, their feet beating against the cracked concrete in time with the drums. Their songs rise weakly into the smog.
It is not celebration.
It is defiance.
Each night the people have prayed harder. The gods feel distant now, their silence a wound in the world, but still the old words are spoken, still the lamps are lit.
From one of the remaining temples, the skeletal ruins of what had once been a sanctuary of Durga, smoke rises in a steady column. Inside, the air vibrates with ancient mantras. The walls are cracked and scorched, yet the idol still stands: Durga, riding her lion, her many arms poised for war.
In front of her, an old priest chants through broken teeth. His voice is hoarse, trembling, but filled with desperate conviction. Around him kneel survivors, mothers, children, men in torn uniforms. They clutch the earth and whisper the goddess's name.
"Protect us, Maa. Protect your children."
Outside the temple, the ground shakes as the demon army begins its descent through the outskirts. They tear through what remains of the slums, crushing shanties underfoot, ripping through walls of brick and steel. Fires bloom in their wake, staining the night with orange light.
The priest feels it even within the sanctum. The vibrations reach through the floor. The lamps flicker.
Still he prays.
Still the people sing.
A child begins to cry.
Then, the air changes again.
The temperature drops.
The flames in the temple gutter once, then rise again brighter than before. The air thickens, heavy with unseen energy.
A whisper passes through the worshipers. Some cry out. Others fall silent, hands pressed to their hearts.
The old priest looks up at the idol.
Durga's eyes, once lifeless stone, now glimmer faintly.
Outside, the demonic horde hesitates. The front ranks snarl and shuffle, uncertain. Something in the air makes their skin blister. The shadows twist, unnatural.
And then the wind stops altogether.
A tremor runs through the city. Buildings creak and lean. The sea surges inward, waves crashing violently against the ruined docks.
Above the city, the clouds begin to move in reverse swirling counterclockwise, gathering toward a single point in the sky. Lightning flashes, white and gold, then purple.
A storm unlike any other forms over Mumbai.
The demons below shriek, shielding their faces as the pressure crushes them. Some burst apart under the invisible weight. Their black blood steams on the ground.
The drumming grows louder, echoing across the city. It is no longer human hands striking the rhythm. The sound resonates through the bones of the world, as if the heartbeat of the goddess herself has awakened.
In the temple, the idol begins to glow. Red, gold, and white light spills from its carved form. The old priest drops to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
He whispers, "She has heard us."
The stone begins to crack.
Each fracture glows brighter until the entire idol bursts in a blinding column of radiance. The worshipers fall flat, shielding their eyes.
Out of the collapsing stone steps a woman.
She is small, barefoot, her skin the color of bronze fire. Her eyes burn gold, calm and fierce. Around her, faint tendrils of energy spiral and hum, forming the illusion of ten arms moving as one. Her hair floats around her face, shimmering like black silk in sunlight.
She breathes once, and the air ripples.
The old priest's heart stops. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
The young girl looks at him and for an instant, he feels infinite peace.
Then she turns toward the door.
Her voice is quiet, soft as rain, yet it shakes the air.
"They have come."
Outside, the leading demon roars and charges forward.
The girl steps into the open.
Behind her walks the great white cow. Its eyes are calm, endless, and sorrowful. It steps softly through the burning street, its hooves leaving ripples of golden light where they touch the ground.
Together, they move toward the oncoming army.
The first demon raises its blade and swings.
The girl does not move.
The weapon freezes in midair, rusting to dust before it reaches her. The demon's body follows, dissolving into ash.
The others hesitate only for a moment before hundreds more charge. Wings blot out the sky.
She closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, the world turns white.
A storm of light erupts from her body, pure and blinding. It sweeps through the ranks like a tidal wave, dissolving demons by the thousands. Their screams echo across the city before being swallowed by silence.
Lightning cracks the sky again, golden bolts lashing downward, striking every shadow that moves.
From the fissure near the coast, black smoke rises, demonic generals shouting orders, summoning reinforcements. The air tears open as more spill through, winged and armored. They circle the glowing figure below, hissing in rage.
The cow lifts its head, and from its throat comes a deep, resonant sound, not a moo, but a low, cosmic hum that vibrates through the bones of every living thing. The ground beneath the demons liquefies, turning molten as they sink, screaming, into the earth.
Still they come.
Still they fall.
The girl's steps never falter. She walks calmly through the battlefield, fire and ice bending away from her body. Her eyes never blink. Her expression never changes.
When the last wave breaks and silence falls once more, half of Mumbai burns with divine light. The rest lies in shadow.
The survivors in the temple crawl to the doorway, watching in awe.
The girl stands on the cracked highway that once led to the heart of the city. The cow stands beside her, its white fur stained faintly red.
The sky above glows with lightning and swirling clouds.
The second night of Navratri has begun.
The faint sound of conch shells echoes from distant temples, some half-destroyed, some untouched. The music drifts across the burning ruins like a lament.
Far away, deep beneath the earth, in caverns filled with flame, Mephistopheles watches through the flickering scrying pool. His lips curl into a grin.
"She awakens," he murmurs, tapping his cane against the molten stone. "Even the cow joins the dance."
Beside him, a hulking demon kneels, trembling under the heat of his gaze. "Shall we move, my lord?"
Mephistopheles chuckles softly. "No. Let her play."
He leans forward, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Every goddess born draws the game closer to its end. Let them call their nights. Let them summon their hope."
The reflection in the molten pool shifts showing the burning city, the girl, the cow, and the countless corpses of demons dissolving into ash.
Mephistopheles sighs as if bored. "They will not last the third."
He stands, stretching languidly, and his shadow lengthens across the wall, sprouting wings of flame.
"Abbadon has answered the call. The heavens will soon descend, and the Pit will rise. All that remains…"
He smiles, tapping his cane once. "Is the devourer."
He turns away from the vision, leaving it to fade into darkness.
Above the city of Mumbai, the storm continues to churn. Lightning rips through the clouds, illuminating the girl's silhouette as she looks east toward the desert where the dragon flies.
She whispers something, lost in the wind.
The cow exhales softly, and the light dims around them both.
Night Two has begun, and the gods are watching.