Far to the north, beyond the ash valleys and faith-fed empires, stood a city carved into black stone—sharp, silent, and wide as a god's breath.
Its name was Nisthagarh—The City That Never Prays.
There were no temples.
No altars.
No gods.
The people here remembered something older than worship: discipline. Every wall was etched with movement. Every hall was a dojo. Every home, a school of silence and form. They did not chant. They trained.
It was said they once followed Matrika, the Mother of Flame—until she was erased. But they remembered her not in name, but in stance.
And now, for the first time in three generations, their bells rang.
Not for prayer.
For preparation.
In a narrow stone chamber at the city's heart, a woman with silver eyes stood before a council of warriors.
"The Flamewalker has passed three gates," she said.
The others murmured.
"If he reaches the fifth, the gods will not wait. They will send cleansers."
"What do we do?" one asked.
The woman unsheathed a staff made of blackwood and breath-metal.
"We don't protect him," she said. "We test him."
She walked to the open window, where the sky shimmered with unrest.
"If he is worthy, he will not burn."
"If he is not…" she turned back, eyes fierce.
"Then we must protect the path—from him."