The Bridge of Glass groaned with every step. Below, the void was alive—stars orbiting unseen suns, forgotten prayers spiraling like ghostly comets.
At the end of the bridge stood the Temple, its gates unsealed but humming with divine resistance. Each pillar was inscribed not in Sanskrit, but in trueform script—a forgotten language only understood by those who had been denied salvation.
Astha reached out, letting his fingers trail over the edge of a pillar. The letters twisted, shifted… and screamed.
"This temple doesn't welcome gods," he said.
"It stores their shame."
Luv's golden eyes glowed under the pressure.
His armor tightened like it sensed war ahead.
"What do you expect to find inside?"
"Truth," Astha replied.
"Or something worse."
---
Inside the Temple
The interior defied geometry.
Stairs curved downward, but the walls climbed into infinite dark. The floor was etched in constellations, pulsing with heartbeat-like rhythms. With each step, they felt their pasts stir—memories pricking skin like blades.
Smritidhaara flared red briefly.
"It doesn't like this place," Astha whispered.
"Too many forgotten souls."
In the center of the temple stood a pedestal, atop which floated a sword.
But not for Astha.
"That's not yours," Luv warned.
"No," Astha replied.
"It's hers."
---
From the shadows stepped a figure—female, confident, silent. Her skin was dusky gold, hair tied in a crown of braids, and her armor was shaped like the wings of Garuda, trimmed in molten silver.
Luv stiffened.
Their eyes met.
Time paused.
"You're…" he began.
"Naira," she said.
"Shield of the Fallen Pantheon. And the last bearer of the Blade of Compassion."
She reached toward the sword. The room went completely dark for a moment—then exploded in light as the sword surged into her hand.
"I've waited here," she said softly.
"Waited for one who didn't fear the gods' blood on their hands."
"You knew we'd come?" Astha asked.
"Not knew," she said.
"I prayed."
---
As the three prepared to descend further into the temple, Naira walked beside Luv. Their connection was quiet, but alive. He lowered his usual cocky guard around her, showing hints of vulnerability.
"You know about the lightning, don't you?" he asked her.
"You carry Indra's spark," she said.
"But not his arrogance."
"And you?" he asked.
She smiled.
"I carry my people's graves."
Astha didn't interrupt. But Smritidhaara did twitch around his wrist, sensing a growing bond. Something worth protecting.
Or losing.
---
At the temple's end was a sealed chamber. It pulsed like a heart. Within it lay something older than even Swarnalok:
A Divine Shard—a fragment of the first flame that birthed the gods themselves.
As Astha approached it, visions struck him—visions of gods begging for mercy, of civilizations erased because they prayed wrong.
Of his brother's voice, whispering from the edge of death.
"Do not become them."
Astha's eyes burned.
He reached for the shard—
—and the walls shattered.
---
The shard was not unguarded.
From the collapsing walls slithered a being made of black glass and bone-silk—Vaakyamaala, the first Word-Eater, a divine prototype created to erase heresy before it reached divine ears.
It hissed—not with sound, but with commands.
"Kneel."
Astha didn't.
"Burn."
He raised his hand. Smritidhaara coiled around his arm, igniting in ghost-flame. Ashvaanta manifested mid-air, spinning into his grip.
Luv and Naira flanked him.
"This is sacred ground," Vaakyamaala screeched.
"Then let it be our battlefield," Astha said.