The incense drifted in soft spirals through the old apartment Aranya had converted into a meditation space. The monsoon winds hummed low outside, tapping gently at the windows like a memory trying to return. The curtains were drawn. A single flame danced atop a copper diya in the centre of the room, casting shadows like moving spirits on the walls.
Veyne sat cross-legged, spine straight, but every muscle taut beneath the skin. On one side sat Aranya, fingers clasped in silent prayer. On the other, Nalini—silent, eyes closed, every breath measured like a weapon being sharpened.
"Focus not on where you are," Nalini whispered, "but on what still calls your name."
It wasn't exactly prayer. It wasn't quite magic. But there was power in the silence. A humming inside the bones.
Veyne exhaled slowly. The world outside—the Mumbai skyline, the dripping balcony, the echoes of honking cars—faded.
And then he fell.
Not physically. Not into darkness. But inward. Deep into a wound he'd never allowed to close.
The vision came like a tide—rushing, roaring, absolute.
He stood again before the broken spires of Valgard.
Or rather, what remained.
The once-glorious city, the heart of Atlantis, now lay in smouldering silence. The marble towers that had pierced the sky were shattered, leaning like forgotten relics of gods who had given up. Crimson ash blanketed the ground. The Ashen Crown's pedestal stood cracked in the centre of the hall, split like a broken promise.
He walked through the ruins barefoot. The wind here smelled of smoke and betrayal.
A flicker of light appeared before him, small and twitching like a dying candle. It spun, wavered, then took form—a burning mask floating in the air, speaking in a voice like cinders blowing through hollow wood.
"Alaric," it said, no warmth in its tone. "Returned. Too late… far too late."
Veyne stopped.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Another echo? Another curse left behind?"
The flame twisted and flared, growing brighter with pain.
"I am what was left. Once a guardian of the Flame Eternal… the protector beneath the Crown. When the Spire fell, I remained. And when you bled… I burned."
The mask flickered violently, writhing.
"They corrupted me. Turned my fire inward. Fed me lies through the mouths of your betrayers. And now I remember only flame."
Veyne's fists clenched. "Who corrupted you? Daemon? Kael?"
"No," the spirit hissed. "Not just them. They were puppets… strung by hands unseen. There is something beneath the factions. Behind the thrones. Something that bends will into weakness... and loyalty into chains."
The spire around them began to groan. Walls twisted in unnatural ways. The ruins responded to the spirit's fury.
"You think betrayal was born in men's hearts?" it screamed. "No, Veyne Alaric. It was sown. Planted. Fed."
Veyne stepped forward, defiance simmering under his skin.
"Then tell me," he said, voice hard, "what name do I burn?"
The mask paused. For a heartbeat, it softened.
"Its name… is not known by mortals. But it is called… the Hollow Flame. It lives in absence. In the spaces where meaning dies. And it has whispered in the ears of kings since before Atlantis was born."
The flames around the ruins flared higher now. The sky above cracked open. Light and fire and memory all began to swirl together.
"Beware, heir of ash," the spirit said. "The Crown was never yours alone. And those who wish to steal it… do not wear faces you recognise."
And with that, the vision shattered.
Veyne gasped, nearly collapsing backwards, the scent of incense now overpowering. Sweat coated his face and chest. His breath came sharp and ragged.
Nalini's hand steadied his shoulder. Aranya was already pouring water.
"You saw something," Nalini said quietly. Not a question.
He nodded, barely able to speak.
"A spirit… left behind at Valgard," he managed. "It was once a protector of the Ashen Crown. But now, it's twisted. In pain. It told me... the betrayal was not just about ambition or power. Something else was pulling the strings."
Aranya's eyes widened. "You mean a higher faction?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Not even that. Something deeper. Older than the Seven. Something that feeds off influence… but leaves behind only emptiness."
Nalini looked grim. "The Order?"
"No," Veyne said, eyes haunted. "The Order may be its tool. But this thing… this Hollow Flame… it's the architect of ruin. It lit the match before we ever knew there was fire."
He stood now, slow but sure.
"We were all betrayed. Not just me."
And in the silence that followed, all three of them understood something new:
This wasn't just a story of vengeance anymore.
This was war against whatever corrupted the foundation of their world.
The air in the Saffron Hand's courtyard was thick with heat—not just from the Mumbai sun, but from Veyne's skin itself. His breath steamed in the air. His palms sparked faint flickers of grey fire. His eyes shimmered with that old light that no longer belonged in this world.
He stood in the centre of the training circle, bare-chested, his body lined with old scars and new ones unseen—ones that pulsed with each memory.
Around him, Nalini circled slowly like a panther, poised and deliberate.
"Again," she said.
Veyne clenched his fists. Smoke curled from his knuckles.
A surge of energy flowed through him—but not clean. Not stable. It writhed like a snake with too many heads. His thoughts blurred. Daemon's blade. Seraya's voice. Elias's betrayal. Lord Kael's silence.
The moment he summoned his Ashen Influence, the courtyard flickered. Flames leapt from his shadow. Tiles cracked. Aranya, watching from the balcony, gripped the railing with worry.
"Control it!" Nalini barked. "You don't command fire by feeling it. You command it by owning it!"
But Veyne couldn't own this fire. It wasn't a sword to wield. It was an old friend turned feral, snapping at his heel.
He released a scream, and the ground beneath him scorched in a perfect ring.
Nalini moved fast. She swept his leg, brought him down hard, and knelt on his chest with an open palm against his forehead. Her voice was calm—but only just.
"You keep fighting it like it's a beast. But this power… is you. If you can't accept that, it will keep burning you from inside."
He panted, staring up at the sky. Sweat trickled into his eyes.
"It's not just power," he whispered. "It's memory. Every time I reach for it… they come back. Their faces. Their lies. Their truths. I don't know if I hate them or still want to understand them."
Aranya approached now, stepping down from the veranda. She knelt beside him and offered water.
"You are not who you were, Veyne," she said gently. "But your grief still remembers that man."
That night, the sky over Mumbai stayed low and hot, choked with cloud and the scent of coming rain. Veyne walked alone, hood pulled over his head, weaving through the narrow streets of a forgotten suburb. He needed space. Breath. Distance from himself.
He passed a broken temple, its paint peeling. A dog barked in the distance.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
He turned down a side alley. Five boys—barely men—had cornered a fruit vendor, a woman no older than Aranya, her cart overturned. One of the boys wore a necklace that shimmered faintly with a sigil Veyne recognised instantly.
Order.
The symbol had changed, adapted to the times. But the energy was the same.
Control without compassion.
One of them kicked a basket of oranges across the concrete.
"Please," the woman begged. "I already paid last week."
"You pay every week," the boy mocked. "But that's the price for protection."
Another laughed. "You want to argue with the Voice of Order, behen? You think you're better than the rules?"
That word. Voice of Order.
Veyne stepped into the alley without a word.
The boys turned.
"Who the hell—" one began.
The air shifted.
Not with wind.
With heat.
The walls of the alley shimmered like a kiln. The streetlights buzzed, dimmed, then flickered out. Shadows danced along the concrete, twisting like live serpents.
Veyne raised his head. His hood fell back.
His eyes glowed grey-gold.
"You're not Order," he said. His voice was low, quiet, like thunder waiting beneath the surface.
"You're just cowards playing god with borrowed rules."
The lead boy pulled a knife.
"I don't care who you are, uncle. Walk away."
Veyne didn't move. Instead, his palms ignited.
Softly.
Ash stirred on the ground.
And then… the alley shifted again—deeper this time.
Like it recognized him.
Veyne stepped forward.
The boy lunged—
—and his knife melted mid-air.
A wall of invisible heat knocked him off his feet. The others screamed, backing away as their own breath became steam.
Veyne stood over the fallen leader.
"I have killed kings who broke oaths," he said. "You are not even a footnote in their shadow."
He raised his hand.
The flames sparked.
But—
A hand touched his shoulder.
Aranya.
She'd followed.
She didn't speak. Just looked at him, eyes wide with concern. Not fear. Concern.
Veyne blinked.
And like that, the power drained.
The fire went out.
His knees buckled slightly. He let out a breath that had been trapped for centuries.
The thugs fled, dragging their friend with them.
The vendor watched silently, trembling.
Veyne turned to Aranya.
"I almost…" He didn't finish.
She simply said, "I know."
And she took his hand.
Later, back at the Saffron Hand compound, Veyne sat on the terrace with Nalini.
She didn't scold him.
She didn't even speak for a while.
Then finally: "Your fire is not the danger. Your rage is."
Veyne didn't argue.
"I saw Order today," he said. "Not just the symbol. Not just the idea. The infection. It's spreading, like mould in the cracks of the city."
Nalini nodded. "The factions that live in shadows thrive when no one holds the torch. You are that torch. But fire, if untamed… destroys the house you wish to warm."
He looked out over the city skyline.
The lights were dim.
The shadows were long.
"I need to be more than flame," he said. "I need to be the one who chooses when to burn."
Nalini smiled faintly. "Then we begin again. Tomorrow."
The air inside the Saffron Hand stronghold had shifted. Once rich with incense and chants, now it pulsed with tension. Whispers echoed through the sandstone corridors like old prayers spoken in reverse.
Veyne stood at the entrance of the inner sanctum, watching the devotees scatter like ash on the wind as he entered. The colour of their robes had deepened. Once bright saffron—bold, burning, alive—they now leaned towards crimson, the shade of blood hidden beneath a wound not yet healed.
Karan Dev waited for him inside the circular chamber, his usually calm face grim. The old tapestries fluttered around them. Candlelight danced across the floor like memory.
"Something has shifted," Karan said without preamble.
Veyne raised an eyebrow. "Within the city?"
"No. Within us."
He stepped aside, revealing a worn scroll spread across the ceremonial table. It was filled with inked verses—teachings, proclamations, oaths—all adapted from Veyne's own words during his first weeks of rise.
But now, the words were twisted. Rewritten.
Instead of "Desire is not weakness; it is will," it now read:
"Desire must be served. The will of flame is law."
Another line, once meditative—"To want is human, to balance it is power"—had been reshaped into:
"To want is holy. To obey is truth."
Veyne stared at the parchment for a long moment.
"Who wrote this?"
Karan hesitated.
"There's a boy. A voice rising among the younger circles. His name is Aahir."
The name didn't stir memory.
"Charismatic. Fierce. He speaks of you like a prophet—but not the one you are. The one he believes you should be."
Veyne's jaw tightened. "And the others?"
"Many follow him. Not all with loyalty. But… they're drawn to the fire."
He crossed his arms. "It's always the same. Give them truth, and they rewrite it into comfort. Give them purpose, and they call it destiny."
Karan nodded. "I warned you. Desire is the most dangerous force—not when it sleeps, but when it thinks it's awake."
That evening, Veyne chose not to wear robes. No ash. No titles. He moved like a shadow into the Hall of Reflection—where initiates gathered nightly for discourse and training.
The space was packed tonight.
The fire in the central brazier blazed tall.
And standing before it, backlit by flame, was Aahir.
He was barely twenty. Slender. Hair tied in a warrior's knot. He wore a version of the Saffron Hand mark over his heart, stitched in black thread. His voice was sharp. Laced with certainty.
"We are not meant to be meek!" Aahir declared. "The fire chose him, yes. But the flame now lives in us. Why should we wait for orders, when Desire itself commands us forward?"
The crowd murmured. Nodded. Some shouted affirmations.
"We no longer need to hide. Why serve, when we can rule?"
Veyne stepped forward then.
No sound.
No force.
Just presence.
It was like the flame had bent toward its true master.
The room went still.
Aahir's eyes widened—but only for a breath. Then he smiled. Bowed deeply.
"Veyne Alaric," he said smoothly. "The Ashen Flame himself graces us. How lucky we are."
"You're not lucky," Veyne said quietly. "You're confused."
Aahir's brow twitched. "I only speak what the people feel."
"You speak what you want them to feel," Veyne replied. "There's a difference."
He walked slowly around the circle of followers.
"Desire is not an excuse to dominate. It is not a reason to enslave. It is a mirror—and many of you are too afraid to see what you truly reflect."
Aahir's smile faded.
"So we wait, then?" he challenged. "Until the city devours us again? Until the Order crushes another spirit in the name of peace? You may have risen, but your fire flickers, Veyne. I offer them certainty. You offer philosophy."
The silence that followed was dangerous. Hot.
Veyne turned to face the crowd.
"I offer choice. The moment you demand obedience in the name of passion—you are no different from the tyrants we burned."
Aahir stepped forward. "The people follow me. Whether you approve or not."
Veyne looked at him.
Not with anger.
But with sadness.
"You are free to speak," he said finally. "But remember this—desire without direction is a wildfire. And wildfire burns everything, even those who dance in it first."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Later, in the silence of his chamber, Aranya found him sitting alone. The moonlight touched his face gently.
"They adore you," she said.
"They don't know me," he replied.
"Maybe that's why they adore you."
He gave a soft, dry laugh.
"I was ready to fight kingdoms. Now I see… I might have to fight my own people first."
She sat beside him. "Then teach them. Again. And again. Until the flame learns to listen."
Mumbai's monsoon had returned in silence.
Outside the Saffron Hand's inner sanctum, rain pattered against tiled roofs like fingers drumming a warning no one understood yet. Inside, the world had dimmed. Candles flickered low. Smoke from sandalwood incense curled upwards, dancing in strange, spiral shapes.
Veyne sat cross-legged in the meditation chamber, eyes closed.
His breath came steady.
One. Two. Three.
His heartbeat pulsed in time with the rain.
Nalini and Aranya sat across from him. Both watched, silent but not still—each aware something was different tonight. There was a current in the air. The scent of old firewood. The hush before something ancient woke.
And then—soft footsteps.
A hooded monk entered.
He carried no blade, no book, no badge of allegiance.
Only a small clay vessel, glazed with black symbols that shimmered like ink drawn in the dark.
Without a word, he knelt.
Lit the incense within.
And vanished into the shadows.
The smoke rose—not grey, but a shifting indigo, pulsing faintly like breath from another world.
The chamber grew cold. The flame dimmed—and then bloomed gold.
Veyne opened his eyes.
And he saw them.
Not with sight.
But with memory.
The Watchers.
Three forms, blurred as silhouettes glimpsed behind heat haze. Eyes where there should've been none. Shapes that didn't move—but unfolded, like ideas blooming into shape.
One voice. Three echoes.
"The fire stirs."
Veyne didn't speak. Words were useless here.
The Watchers spoke again.
"The Dominion wakes. The old flame. The next gate."
"It answers not to want, but to ritual. You must enter burning, or not at all."
He dared to respond. His voice was small inside the smoke. But sharp.
"Where?"
"South. Through ash and chain. To the halls where no names live."
"Follow the smoke of their silence. Find the Scribe of Bone."
Aranya's voice came, though it was muffled—as though speaking through water.
"What… what is the next faction?"
The Watchers did not answer directly.
Instead, they whispered:
"Knowledge does not give itself. It hides. It tests. It waits."
"But it knows you, Ashen One. It fears you."
Veyne frowned. "Why fear me?"
"Because even secrets can burn."
Then came a stillness.
One of the Watchers—perhaps the First Eye, or maybe something older—leaned close, impossibly close.
Its voice curled around his mind like smoke through cracks.
"But first… the Order watches. It builds. It tightens its circle."
"Their temple is not where you think. It does not rise—it descends."
That chilled him.
He whispered, "Where?"
"The place where men forget their names."
"Where even fire turns cold."
Then, the Watchers spoke no more.
The smoke twisted violently—once, like a cyclone—and collapsed inwards. The incense pot cracked with a loud snap, and the glow died.
Silence rushed back in like a tidal wave.
Veyne exhaled.
Slow.
Heavy.
Aranya looked shaken. Nalini's hands trembled.
"You alright?" she asked quietly.
"No," Veyne said. "But I think I know where to go next."
He stood, eyes dark, face unreadable.
"They've started moving."
Aranya stood as well. "Who?"
"The ones who think this world is still theirs."
Outside, the rain softened.
But the sky didn't clear.
Thunder growled in the distance—less like weather, more like warning.
The fire had fractured.
And in its cracks, new eyes had opened.