Ashan approached the raised platform.
Elder Zarah looked down from on high, his ancient eyes catching the torchlight like chips of obsidian. He made a casual grabbing motion with his right hand—a gesture so effortless it might have been swatting a fly.
Ashan felt the effect of gravity leave his body.
His stomach lurched. The stones beneath his feet fell away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, he floated, suspended in the cold cavern air like a leaf caught in an updraft.
If he wanted me dead, it would be effortless.
He did not resist.
He landed softly upon the platform, his knees absorbing the impact with the grace of a cat. Elder Zarah measured him with a glance—quick, clinical, revealing nothing—then turned.
"Keep your manners in check. A royal person of the Order has come to meet you."
A royal person. Ashan's thoughts moved behind his carefully neutral expression. Have they discovered I possess a siddhi? With their knowledge and strength, it's not surprising. But they have taken their sweet time.
"Yes, Elder", he replied, his tone polished to deference.
He followed Elder Zarah inside a wooden hut.
Blood-red candles illuminated the interior. Their flames guttered in iron holders set along the walls, casting the room in shades of crimson and shadow. The air was thick—not with incense, but with something heavier. Something that pressed against the skin and made the back of the throat tighten.
The moment Ashan crossed the threshold, two gazes landed on him. He felt the pressure of two serpents gauging their prey—cold, patient, utterly without mercy.
He looked back.
Two figures adorned with golden serpent masks observed him. One sat in a high-backed chair, the other stood behind him like a shadow carved from stone. Both wore the layered robes of the Serpent faction, but the quality was unmistakable—dark gold thread, precise stitching, fabric that draped with a weight ordinary robes lacked. These were not the uniforms of Arashen-ranked members. These were the vestments of those who sat above.
"So, this is the one who unlocked a siddhi?" The seated man's voice was young, laced with amusement. The serpent mask turned slightly, the empty eye sockets catching the candlelight. "He looks... unremarkable."
Ashan had no time to feign shock.
A shadow darted toward him.
Shit!
His eyes swirled into whirlpools of grayish-white.
[Viksana — Foresee]
Time stretched. The future unspooled before him in fragments—five seconds, no more. He saw a fist, knuckles pale against skin. He saw it arcing toward his face. He saw the trajectory, the angle, the force behind it.
There.
He tried to duck.
The blow clipped his chin anyway.
The impact sent him flying. His back struck the wall with a sound like meat slapping stone. Pain exploded through his skull, his spine, his ribs. The world tilted, blurred, then steadied.
Thack.
A low groan escaped his lips.
Elder Zarah glanced at Ashan's crumpled form, his expression unreadable. "Kumar, he is still recovering from his injuries." The words were cold, but respectful—the deference of age to position, not power to power.
"Hmm. Don't worry." The Kumar's voice held the easy confidence of someone who had never needed to worry about anything. "I merely wished to see for myself what manner of siddhi he possesses."
He observed Ashan with open curiosity, like a collector examining a new acquisition.
Ashan pushed himself up. His body screamed—ribs, shoulders, the tender flesh of his chin where the blow had landed. He ignored it all, forcing his limbs to obey, forcing his face into something that might pass for composure.
The other masked figure approached. In his hands, a clay cup. From its surface, a faint black wisp curled upward like smoke from dying embers.
Ashan blinked, his face grimacing.
"It is not poison." The Kumar's tone was matter-of-fact, almost bored. "We seek only honesty. A Siddha is a valuable asset to any organization. We need one."
Kumar. The title registered now. A young noble lord. Is he from the House of Greed? And 'Siddha'—the term for one who awakens a siddhi.
Ashan took the cup. The black wisp continued to pour from its surface, writhing like something alive. He sniffed it. No scent. Only a faint murkiness, a wrongness that made the nose want to turn away. The drink itself was pale white, the color of bone bleached by sun.
Power... huh. That is what I need.
The thought crystallized in his mind, cold and absolute.
Immortality is a long-cherished dream. But to achieve it, one must hold certain things and lose others. To give up everything for a dream requires a mind that can adapt and evolve. Resentment against the strong is useless if you cannot harness it. Use that feeling as fuel.
He gulped the drink down in one go.
Bland.
The liquid slid down his throat like water. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—
His mind grew light. Fuzzy. The edges of his thoughts blurred, softened, dissolved. He felt present, yet detached, as if part of him floated somewhere above his own body, watching through a lens smeared with oil.
What is this strange feeling?
"Ashan, how are you feeling?" the Kumar asked.
Ashan felt a deep, compelling obligation to answer. The words rose from somewhere beneath thought, rising like bubbles through murky water. "I am feeling fuzzy."
His vision swam. The candles multiplied, then merged, then split again. The masked figures became shapes without edges, presences without form.
What the fuck did they give me?
"Answer me truthfully." The Kumar's voice cut through the fog, clear and cold. "What is your name?"
"Ashan." The word came out flat, a monotone stripped of inflection.
I can think straight. Mostly. But there's a compulsion to speak the truth. He turned the paradox over in his sluggish mind. Well, 'Ashan' is the name I gave myself in this world. It has become my truth. So both names, from this life or the last, are mine.
"When did you unlock your anumapah siddhi?"
"While Elder Zarah was explaining the third trial: Accepting your sins."
The Kumar, the masked man, and the Elder exchanged a brief, significant glance. Something passed between them—understanding, confirmation, perhaps something more.
"So, it was during that time." The masked man's voice was soft, thoughtful. "Our speculation was correct."
"What is the name of your siddhi?" The Kumar leaned forward slightly, his serpent mask catching the light. "And what are its three abilities? Explain them."
Three abilities? Ashan's mind worked behind the fog, calculating, weighing. Their understanding of siddhis is also limited. Which three should I reveal?
He remained silent for a moment, letting the pause stretch. Then: "Viksana. It allows me to gaze into time, fate, and beings. The three abilities I have are: [Scrying], [Foresee], and [Memory Drive]."
He explained each ability in a detached, monotonous voice. The words came without effort, without hesitation, the truth serum doing its work.
The three men were silent for a long moment.
"Tch!" The masked man shook his head, disappointment coloring his voice. "A shame his siddhi lacks any direct damaging or potent killing abilities."
Elder Zarah caressed his chin, his ancient fingers moving with slow deliberation. "Yet it is powerful in the domains of divination and information. A siddhi's abilities, when mastered, far surpass mantra and kiriya."
"The Order is in dire need of talent." The Kumar's voice was grim, his amusement fading. "He will bring it glory. I am pleased our House of Greed has a new Siddha."
Elder Zarah's eyes flickered. He coughed lightly. "You mean the Order has a new Siddha."
"Oh, yes." The Kumar's lips curved beneath his mask. "The same meaning."
Ashan held his head, a dull throb building behind his eyes. He shook it, trying to clear the fuzziness, the double vision, the strange detachment that still clung to his thoughts.
"Looks like the effect has worn off." The Kumar removed his golden serpent mask. Beneath it was the face of a young noble—sharp features, brown eyes that held a serpent's cold gaze, black hair neatly tied back. A face that might have been handsome if not for the calculation behind it, the quiet certainty of someone who had never doubted his place in the world.
"I am Taevor Belvik. Young lord of the House of Greed. You may address me as Kumar Taevor."
Ashan bowed his head, the gesture deeper than before, weighted with the precise measure of deference owed to power. "I am graced by your presence, Kumar Taevor."
The words tasted like ash on his tongue. But he smiled anyway—the smile of a tool that understood its purpose.
And in the depths of his grey-white eyes, something watched. Something waited.
Something that had already begun to calculate the price of the cage they were building for him.