Seven shadows of darker shade mingled beneath the twilight sky.
They danced as one—trying to merge, to become something more.
Seven became one.
The sky roared. A blood-red lotus bloomed.
An old woman with snow-white hair muttered in a terrible, rasping voice, "Seven... to... one. The one who holds the lotus upon his heart."
Her layered, moon-dyed robes fluttered, as did the white crescent locket that hung at her throat. Silver-white candles trembled, their glow dimming for a breath.
Another woman, seated before her, watched with a worried gaze. She wore the same sacred attire.
The old woman's black eyes rolled back until only white remained. Her speech turned frenzied, her hair dancing like a storm around her head. "Seven... one... lotus."
The candles flared. Their flames writhed like mad spirits.
"Guru Koldrav!" the younger woman cried, voice heavy with concern.
Guru Koldrav's eyes snapped back to normal. Her snow-white hair fell still. She drew a deep, shuddering breath, calming herself. Then she placed her left hand upon her heart in the shape of a crescent moon, veiling it gently with her right.
"Evernight, cloak us.
Empress of Moon, rule our fate.
Creator of Night, drown us in love, in grief, in weight.
O Lullaby, dissolve us—until dawn, let us wait."
"Praise the Veiled Lady of Night."
"Praise the Veiled Lady of Night", the seated woman echoed.
"Guru Koldrav, what did you see in your vision?" she asked, voice low and reverent.
The old guru studied her sisya's dark eyes for a long moment. "Something vast approaches. I could not discern much of what the spirits showed me." Her words thinned into silence.
"What of the investigations in the southern part of rajyam?" she asked next.
Her sisya hesitated. "According to the soldiers' reports... we uncovered skeletons. Buried deep beneath the snow."
Guru Koldrav's eyes flickered. "Skeletons", she repeated softly, the word ghostlike on her lips.
She rose from her woolen mat. "Kaelra, we must keep strict watch."
"Should I go myself? I wish to see it."
Koldrav shook her head. "No. You are queen. The rajyam needs your presence. The tribals have begun their futile struggles again. You will remain. I will go."
Kaelra nodded, pressing the crescent moon over her heart. "Praise the Veiled Lady of Night."
"Praise the Veiled Lady of Night."
Together, they prayed to their Devi.
The mess hall was silent.
Ashan sat alone at the long wooden table, a clay cup cradled between his palms. The spiced milk had gone lukewarm, but he drank anyway, letting the faint sweetness coat his tongue. Across the empty benches, shadows pooled where thirty teams had once eaten together. Now only seven remained.
Two months. Only that long in that hell, yet it felt like a lifetime. Eight months since I opened my eyes in that cave. Eight months, and so much has happened.
The final battle against Macos still bled through his thoughts—the berserk Vyaghruga chief, the flames, Cloe's headless body crumpling in the dirt. He closed his eyes, but the image didn't fade. It never did.
"ASHAN!"
The shout shattered the silence like a fist through glass.
Ashan's eyes opened. Ballio stood in the doorway, chest heaving, face flushed crimson. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles white as bone.
Oh. He's conscious.
Behind him, the rest of Team 7 filed in—Dris with his arms crossed, Roderic wearing his usual mask of cool observation, Helma and Damara exchanging uneasy glances, Imla bringing up the rear with her green eyes fixed on Ballio's back.
Old Mai, the head cook, watched from behind her counter with mild curiosity. "Baret, do you think he needs something to eat to calm down?"
Baret didn't look up from the vegetables he was cutting with swift, clean motions. "I doubt it."
"My, my. The young are so hot-blooded", she chuckled.
Ballio slammed both hands on Ashan's table. The cups rattled. The sound echoed off the stone walls.
"WHY?"
Tears gleamed in his eyes—not weakness, not quite. Grief given shape.
Ashan took a slow sip of his spiced milk. His gaze swept over the rest of his team. Everyone pointed at Dris.
Dris shrugged, a small, sharp smile tugging at his lips. "Someone had to tell him the truth."
Of course.
Ashan set down his cup. "What do you mean by 'why'? Elaborate."
Ballio's knuckles went whiter. His voice cracked when it came, strangled with something that might have been rage or might have been despair. "YOU KILLED CLOE!"
The words hung in the silence.
Ashan drained the last of his drink. The spiced milk coated his throat, warm and faintly sweet. Now... what to tell him? Lame excuses about necessity, about the only way—they sat wrong in his chest. Lies were tools, but some tools were too blunt for the work.
He stood, facing Ballio, gaze steady.
"I'll remind you of two details you've forgotten." His voice was calm. Measured. "Cloe was a manuga. A captive in a pocket dimension. Even if she had lived, do you think the Order would have let her walk free?"
Ballio's mouth opened. Closed. The words jammed somewhere between his throat and his tongue.
"Here's the second detail." Ashan tapped Ballio's shoulder once, a light touch, almost gentle.
"If you want your ideals to shape the world, you must be strong enough to bend the world to your will. Strong ideals without strength are nothing but chains that drag you down."
He walked past without looking back.
Ballio stood frozen, fists still clenched, head bowed. His shoulders trembled.
Dris let out a low whistle. "That was cold."
"The death of that cat really hit him hard," Imla murmured.
Helma elbowed her. "Keep your voice down."
"Poor Ballio", Damara sighed. "He truly liked Cloe."
"That's the sad truth of this world," Roderic said quietly. "He needs time to heal."
Ashan paused at the threshold, glancing back. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
Dris raised an eyebrow. "And where are you going?"
"For a walk."
The corridor was empty, the torches guttering in their iron sconces. Ashan's footsteps echoed against the stone, each one a small, deliberate sound in the cavern's vast silence.
So, it begins. The first crack.
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath mist in the cold air.
Our trust was always just a tool for survival. Today, I killed my friend's love.
Friend. The word tasted strange on his tongue. Even in his old world, he'd never understood it. If someone insults your family yet helps you when it matters—is that friendship? Or are there lines that, once crossed, can never be mended?
Blurred faces flickered in his memory—half-remembered, half-forgotten. Names he'd let go of in another life.
In the future, if I must sever bonds for my goals, I'll do it without guilt. His jaw tightened. But I'm still human. My humanity... is evolving.
He let the thought settle, turning it over, examining it from every angle.
I'll take this grief and feed it to the fire. Fuel for my dream. For Amartva.
"Ashan, come to the raised platform."
The voice was cold. Measured. It echoed in his skull like stones dropped into deep water.
Ashan stopped mid-step.
Elder Zarah. He tilted his head toward the distant platform, barely visible through the gloom. So, the time for judgement has come.
He changed direction without hesitation, his footsteps steady, his breathing even.
Behind him, the mess hall faded into shadow. Ahead, something waited that he could not yet see.
But he walked toward it anyway.
Because that's what survivors do.