"Don't you want to know what they're guarding?" asked a voice, calm yet clear enough to cut through the tension.
Everyone turned, hands on hilts, bows drawn. Out of the stillness stepped a frail old man. His robes were worn and frayed, draped loosely over his bony frame. He walked with slow, deliberate steps, leaning on a wooden staff that looked older than the city itself.
The old priest came forward and looked at the gathering of soldiers, whisperers, and temple guards with tired, sunken eyes. His voice, though weathered, carried a weight that hushed the men around him.
"This city has suffered enough," he said softly. "War after war has stripped us of everything. Our people are gone, our homes shattered. What remains is not gold or magic, but faith—this temple. It is all we have left. If you have come here searching for treasure, you will find none. If you're here for power, you are too late. All that ever mattered was taken long ago. These men—" he gestured to the guards behind him—"they are not defending a secret. They are simply guarding what remains of our belief. Do not crush what little we still hold onto."
The guards didn't move. Their weapons remained drawn, but their stance softened. It was not a call to surrender, but a plea to understand.
The twins, their soldiers, and the whisperers stood silent. Dust swirled between their boots. One wrong word could ignite bloodshed.
Raghav stepped forward. His hands were away from his weapon. He addressed the priest with the respect due to age.
"Baba," Raghav said gently, "we're not here to harm you. We've not come to steal or destroy. We seek only information—and someone who was taken. A friend. That is all."
Rudra raised a hand. His soldiers lowered their weapons. The temple guards, after a tense pause, followed. The heavy silence was briefly replaced by the sound of relieved breathing.
The priest nodded slowly and gestured toward a stone platform outside the temple. He sat down with care. A young temple guard brought him a small copper cup of water. He drank, his throat dry, and looked back at Raghav.
"Tell me, then. Why have you come here?"
Raghav knelt beside him. "We're not with Sarthak. We're from Prithvi Mandala. We don't want conflict. Please, tell your guards not to alert Sarthak."
One of the temple guards—a tall man with streaks of grey in his hair and a long scar down his cheek—stepped forward.
"Why would we inform Sarthak?" he asked, voice cold.
Rudra looked at him sharply. "You don't work for him?"
"You work for him," the man snapped. "He has already taken everything from this city. And now more of his soldiers arrive. We thought he sent you to take what little remains."
"No," Raghav said quickly. "He's our enemy. He killed our men."
The temple guard, whose name they soon learned was Charak, studied Raghav's face. The tension remained, but a shift had begun.
Around them, the ruined city of Aghorvan stood still—its towering buildings hollowed by war, the streets silent. Above them, clouds moved slowly across a full moon. Long shadows stretched across the broken stone as the past and present stood face to face.
"If you don't work for Sarthak," Rudra asked carefully, "why did the Vanmargis attack your men when we entered?"
Charak frowned. "What are you talking about? They're our allies. We came with them."
Charak's brows furrowed. "We are Vanmargis. All the guards you see here, the ones who've stayed behind to protect this place—we're from the Vanmargi line. And we didn't attack anyone."
A beat of silence passed.
Before anyone could speak again, the earth stirred.
Vines crept silently across the stone paths. At first, just a few tendrils slithered through the cracks in the street. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
They emerged from the ground like snakes from a pit—green, thick, pulsing with life. In moments, the vines had wrapped around legs, arms, weapons—pulling soldiers and guards alike into place. Not to harm. Just to hold.
Men shouted, struggled, some slashed at the creeping restraints—but more vines emerged, coiling faster than they could be cut.
Raghav's eyes widened.
A chariot rolled to a halt just outside the temple gates.
Its wheels crushed the loose stones beneath it. Horses stamped and snorted, steam rising from their nostrils in the fading light. Behind it, over two hundred armed men formed ranks—disciplined, silent, armored in black and steel.
The chariot's door opened.
Sarthak stepped down slowly, every movement deliberate. He adjusted his gauntlet, surveyed the scene with cold calculation.
Then, from behind him, a figure stepped forward.
Netra!
Draped in dark green robes that whispered as she walked, she moved like a force of nature. The vines responded to her breath, tightening with her steps, binding the resistance without drawing blood.
Rudra's mouth moved, but no sound came.
"No..." he whispered.