Silence.
Not the absence of sound.
The absence of being.
Manraj's body dissolved into weightlessness, the world peeling away like thin paper. The courtyard, the fountain, the broken sigils, Zoya's outstretched hand —
—all tore sideways into light.
White-gold.
Soft.
Blinding.
Terrifying.
He wasn't falling.
He wasn't rising.
He was unwritten.
A voice hovered somewhere behind him.
"Manraj!"
Zoya's voice. Far. Echoing. Warping. Like it was leaking through a crack in glass.
He tried to reach for it — for her — but his fingers weren't fingers anymore. Just fragments of memory drifting through brightness.
Then:
Something clasped around his wrist.
A grip.
Cold.
Ancient.
Not Zoya's.
Manraj gasped soundlessly as a presence curled around him, familiar and unfamiliar all at once — like déjà vu stitched to a nightmare.
"…Eryth…"
The word was soft.
Not hungry.
Not hostile.
Not the Under-Root whisper.
This was… older.
Sharper.
Woven with authority.
A Root-name.
The name he was supposed to answer to.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
"I'm not—" The words shattered in the light.
The world flickered.
A shadow formed in front of him, cut out of the brightness like ink spilled across a page.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Still.
A silhouette he knew too well.
"Azhar?"
No answer.
Not a word.
But the shadow stepped closer.
Manraj reached toward it instinctively.
"Azhar—are you—"
The silhouette twitched.
Not human.
Not whole.
Like a puppet tied to strings that were fraying.
The shadow lifted its head.
Where Azhar's face should've been was a blur — smudged, streaked, as if someone had tried to erase him mid-memory.
Manraj froze.
"Zoya was right…"
This wasn't Azhar.
This was —
Azhar's absence.
The empty space the Root had carved out.
The vacancy the countdown had been measuring.
The silhouette reached toward him—
—and the light pulsed violently, pushing it back.
A booming ripple moved through the white-gold plane.
A voice followed.
Not spoken.
Not heard.
Felt.
"YOU WERE NOT MEANT TO SEE THIS."
Manraj clutched his head, choking on air that wasn't air.
"Wh—who—?"
The voice came again.
Larger.
Layered.
Like a hundred versions of the same speaker overlapping.
"THE SUCCESSOR SHOULD ARRIVE COMPLETE."
Successor.
Manraj shook his head, heart battering his ribs.
"No. I'm not your— I'm not anyone's successor."
The light trembled.
"THE VESSEL ARGUES."
"I'm not a vessel!"
"THE FIRST ONE ARGUED TOO."
Manraj's breath stopped.
"…Azhar?"
The light dimmed — just enough to reveal a fractured memory suspended in the air.
Azhar.
Standing where Manraj stood now.
Face half-lit, half-shadow.
Expression unreadable.
His voice — distorted and distant — whispered:
"Don't let them finish you."
Manraj reached toward the memory—
—but it shattered into dust.
"No—!"
The Root-voice thundered again.
"THE UNFINISHED MUST BE RETURNED TO THE MAKER."
White-gold tendrils curled around Manraj's limbs.
Not hostile.
Not gentle.
Inevitable.
He fought them, pushing back with every ounce of himself.
"Let me go—!"
"YOU WERE NOT CALLED FOR PERMISSION."
The tendrils tightened.
Pain stabbed through his ribs as the number flared—
26
→
—
nothing.
The countdown wasn't gone.
It was resetting.
Recalibrating.
Syncing with the Root.
"No—NO—STOP—!"
He pushed harder, light cracking beneath his palms—
—and somewhere far away, he heard Zoya scream:
"MANRAJ!"
Her voice sliced through the white space like a blade.
The tendrils recoiled.
The Root-plane flickered.
Manraj fell backward, sliding out of the light—
—and slammed into something warm, familiar, human.
Zoya.
She caught him as the ward's broken stones reappeared around them.
The white-gold collapsed into a single spark and vanished.
Manraj gasped, coughing, clutching his chest.
Zoya pressed a hand to his face.
"HEY—HEY—look at me—look at me—"
He forced his eyes open.
"Zoya… it wasn't the Under-Root."
"What?"
"It was the Root."
Her face drained of color.
"What did it do to you?"
He shook his head.
"It tried to pull me back. Tried to finish something. It—it called me a successor."
Zoya's breath trembled.
"Oh god…"
The number in his chest pulsed again.
But not as a burn.
As a brand.
26.
Zoya whispered:
"…The Root marked you too."
Manraj's voice cracked.
"Zoya… it wants me completed."
She swallowed.
"And the Under-Root wants the same thing."
They stared at each other in the broken courtyard.
Two forces — one above, one below — pulling him in opposite directions.
Zoya whispered what Manraj already knew:
"…You're the center of a war neither side wants you to survive."
The number throbbed.
26.
And for the first time—
Manraj whispered the fear he had never spoken aloud:
"What if both sides want me dead?"
Zoya grabbed his hand.
"We're not letting either side decide that."
The ground trembled beneath them.
Not with shadow.
Not with light.
With choice.
The Root had found him.
The Under-Root was hunting him.
And both believed they had the right to finish him.
Zoya closed her eyes.
"Manraj… we need Azhar."
Manraj nodded.
"We need to bring him back."
And the countdown began again.