The black iron door sealed shut with a tomb's finality. The prince stood alone in the corridor, the terrible cold pulling back beneath his skin like a coiled serpent. The servants had already fled. Even the torch flames guttered away from him.
He walked slowly. His chambers lay elsewhere, in the fortress's quiet bones where cold was absolute. But when the Maharaj called—even for this—protocol demanded the proper skin.
"Will you wear the mask tonight?" a voice whispered from the shadows. An old steward, trembling.
The prince didn't turn. "Which one do you think?"
"The... the Clock Mask, my lord?"
"Obviously."
In a bare chamber, he dressed: dark layers, a light-drinking cloak. Finally, the mask. Not featureless obsidian, but polished matte black metal with frozen gears where a forehead should be. Hands perpetually pointing to an hour that didn't exist. The world grew quieter as he fastened it. More distant.
He left through the cliff-side passage. A creature awaited—ragged wings, starless midnight feathers. No bow, no acknowledgement. It simply allowed him onto its back.
"Will it hold?" the prince murmured, more to himself than the beast.
It spread its wings in answer. They fell into the abyss, wind screaming, before soaring into the cloud-choked sky.
---
The Agnihotri stronghold rose from a living volcano. Basalt walls shimmered with trapped heat. Below, molten rivers painted the clouds a permanent, angry orange. The gates weren't just huge—they were humongous obsidian slabs banded with smoldering brass.
Before them stood the gatekeepers. Not men, but beasts reshaped by fire Prana—skin like cracked magma, eyes like ember pits. They held black iron axes with white-hot edges.
Yet when the Clock Mask approached, they flinched.
As one, they bowed their horned heads. The heat haze around them dimmed.
"The Frozen Hour walks," the first guard rumbled, voice like grinding stones.
"Third time this year," hissed the second, tracking the retreating cloak. "Bad omens blow on hot winds when he comes."
A third, older guard with a cracked tusk spat molten rock. "Quiet. His ears aren't just ears."
The first guard straightened slightly. "You think he hears us from there?"
"Everywhere," the old one muttered. "But you're not wrong. East trade road's thick with bandits laughing at our sigil. North clans whisper behind closed doors."
"The Maharaj's fire burns hot," the second guard said, shifting his weight, "but it can't be everywhere. Kingdom feels... thin. Stretched."
"And he's here." The old guard's ember eyes narrowed. "Means something's fraying faster than we can mend. Something even Agnihotri flame can't just burn away."
"Could burn him," the first guard suggested quietly.
Both others turned on him. The old one barked a laugh like cracking stone. "Try it. See whose ash scatters first."
They fell silent, glowing eyes scanning the fiery landscape. Each knew the clock's arrival ticked toward unseen trouble.
---
Prince moved like a chill draft through the fortress. Not to the throne room's roaring braziers, but down. Older staircases. Away from heat, into the mountain's cold bones.
He reached a wall of seamless stone. Placed his palm against it. No Prana flare. The stone simply... parted. Flowed aside like dark water. He entered; it sealed behind him.
Phosphorescent fungi lit the dead, cold air. The passage opened into a vast cavern—the Agnihotri Basement. Six figures argued around a stone table lit by a single crystal.
"—cannot just burn the problem!" a sharp-faced woman snarled, slamming a bony hand down. "These bandits were former legionnaires! They know our formations! They're a symptom, not the disease!"
"The disease is disrespect!" a bulky man with an iron-filing beard roared. "When did a Silken Confederation caravan last pay full toll? They delay, they bargain, they insult us with petty haggling!"
A cloudy-eyed elder wheezed, "The Frost Clan's eradication sent a message, yes. But it left a vacuum. Northern passes are now a free-for-all. Tundra Steppes raiders pour through. Our garrisons there are freezing and undermanned."
"It's fragmentation," a younger, nervous councilman interjected, wringing his hands. "Minor clans aren't uniting against us—they're forgetting us. Our authority's becoming a story for children, not a law they live by."
"We need a show of strength," the sharp-faced woman insisted. "But a smart one. Not just more fire."
"A competition," the bulky man grumbled. "The old way. But the Frost Clan is gone. Who's left to compete with? Our own shadows?"
The nervous one spoke again. "The full moon is in seven nights. Traditional time for the Great Conflagration. But without a rival... it's just a festival. An empty party."
The cloudy-eyed elder turned his head slowly. "A rival... can be found. Or made."
The sharp-faced woman peered into the gloom. "What do you mean?"
The prince stepped into the frail light. No sound, but the argument died as if choked by cold. Six pairs of ancient, cunning eyes fixed on the Clock Mask with dread and desperate hope.
"You speak of competitions," the modulated voice hollowed the air. "You need a foil for your fire. To make the flames look bright again."
The bulky man recovered first, bluster gone. "You... heard."
"I listen," the mask corrected. "Bandits are a nuisance. Fragmentation is a tide. You cannot stop a tide with a wall of fire. You must divert it. Or ride it."
The sharp-faced woman leaned forward. "What do you propose?"
"The Conflagration will happen," the Clock Mask stated. "Announce it to every corner. Make it the grandest in a generation. Promise a display of might that reminds the world of its place."
"And the rival?" the nervous man asked.
A faint movement might have occurred behind frozen gears. "A rival will appear. One of frost and forgotten legacy. One that will make your victory meaningful again."
He turned. Melted back into darkness without waiting for questions. They were left with cold promise and the silent, ticking face burned into their vision.
---
The jungle sunrise painted the cave in green-gold liquid patterns through the waterfall.
Shruti sat center-cave, legs folded, sword across her knees. Eyes closed, breathing deliberate. She reached—not for jungle Prana, but for the cold well within. The Fourth Chakara. The Heart. The center of connection.
Chandra and Surya watched from the entrance, shadow and ember woven together.
"Her breathing's getting quieter," Surya observed, tail-tip twitching. "Like she's not here."
"She's deep inside," Chandra murmured. "Where cold is born. It's fragile. Don't disturb her."
The sword trembled. Rose into the air. No flash, no dart—just floated, turning slowly like ice in a pond.
"Look at that!" Surya whispered fiercely. "No hands. Just will. That's new!"
"Fourth's touch," Chandra said, pride warming her mental voice. "The frost that holds, not just breaks."
Sweat beaded on Shruti's temple—not from heat, but focus. The sword moved, tracing arcs through the air. A defensive Baghel form: Weeping Willow. The blade wove a shimmering net of potential cold, fluid and precise.
"She's good," Surya admitted, leaning forward.
"She's her mother's daughter," Chandra replied softly. "Sarika's forms were water. Shankar's were glacier. Shruti... she's learning to be both."
The sword transitioned into Falling Snow. Speed increased—a blur of silent strikes, a deadly flurry.
"Go on, little princess!" Surya cheered silently. "Show that imaginary enemy who owns winter!"
"Hush," Chandra scolded, though she too leaned forward. "Let the sword breathe with you. Find the rhythm."
Finally, with a last sweep that left crystalline light in the damp air, Shruti halted the sword. It settled gently onto her knees. She opened her eyes—they glowed silver-blue for a second before fading.
Surya bounded over, nuzzling her arm. "That was amazing! All swoosh and whisper! I barely blinked!"
Chandra pressed a cool forehead to her other shoulder. "Well done. The Heart Chakara listens. It remembers."
Shruti smiled, tired but genuine. "It's faint. Like hearing a song through a thick wall. But it's there." She panted slightly. "Enough for now. We have a mission."
Both panthers perked up.
"Mission?" Surya asked, ears swiveling forward.
"The full moon," Shruti said, voice returning to its strategic cadence. "Seven nights. It's when Frost and Inferno held the Great Conflagration—a competition of might, a display for lesser clans. A way to settle disputes without war."
Chandra's mental voice turned grave. "But the Frost Clan is gone."
"Exactly. For Agnihotri, it'll be a hollow victory lap. A show with no audience. They'll be vulnerable to pride. Complacency." Shruti's eyes hardened. "We need to be there. Gather intelligence. See their forces, morale, leadership."
Surya's golden eyes blazed. "Can we kill Agnihotri? The king?"
The brief light in Shruti's face snuffed out. Her expression turned grave. "Jwala Agnihotri is strong enough to crush all three of us single-handedly without breaking a sweat. His fire isn't just heat—it's annihilation. We're not ready. Not yet."
The cave grew quiet.
"Then we watch," Chandra said firmly. "We listen. We learn where the cracks are. Find the kindling before we strike the spark."
Shruti nodded, stroking both their heads. "We watch. And we remember. Every face, every banner, every boast. It all goes into the ledger."
She looked past the waterfall, as if seeing all the way to the volcanic stronghold. The countdown in her heart ticked forward, matching the rhythm of a frozen clock in a distant, dark palace.
The game was moving to its next stage.