Ashan kept his head low, his gaze carefully averted from Kumar Taevor's face. The candlelight painted shadows across the floor, and in those shadows, he could see the shape of his own future shifting—becoming something he had not fully anticipated.
"You must be wondering about the nature of a siddhi, correct?" The Kumar settled back into his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath his weight.
The other masked person removed his golden serpent mask. Beneath it was the weathered face of a man who had seen much—the lines around his eyes spoke of decades, perhaps centuries, of service. His hair was grey at the temples, his jaw set with the particular firmness of those who had learned to keep secrets.
"Yes, my Kumar." Ashan kept his voice polished with humility, letting just a note of uncertainty creep into the edges. "My understanding remains incomplete."
"Elder Jinish, if you would enlighten our new Siddha," Kumar Taevor requested.
Elder Jinish cleared his throat lightly. "Siddhis are supernatural powers." His voice was dry, the voice of a man who had explained the same concepts to the same eager faces for longer than he cared to remember. "Their primary distinction from mantras and kiriyas is that they cannot be taught or learned. One who unlocks a siddhi is called a Siddha. An anumapah siddhi possesses three distinct abilities under its domain."
Then why the hell does my siddhi have five?
Ashan did not interrupt. He listened with the intensity of a man memorizing the contours of a cage he might one day need to escape.
"When a siddhi unlocks, the great voice—the Mahanada—whispers its truth into the Siddha's ear. High-ranked Sadhakas can sense the fluctuations of this event."
So the voice I heard was the Mahanada. He filed the information away, turning it over, examining it from every angle. I wonder what other purposes this 'voice' serves.
"Broadly, there are two types of siddhis: Anumapah Siddhi and Anvaya Siddhi." Elder Jinish's fingers traced patterns in the air as he spoke, as if drawing the concepts into existence. "Anumapah is unique, personalized, and contains three skills. Anvaya is a bloodline inheritance, which can host multiple skills. That is the foundation. You will learn more in time."
Two types. The realization settled in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. So the other source is bloodline.
"Kumar Taevor, if I may be so bold, I have one further question." Ashan bowed his head again, letting the deference hang in the pause that followed.
Kumar Taevor measured him with amused eyes. "Speak."
"Thank you, my Kumar." He chose his words carefully, letting them fall like seeds planted in prepared soil. "It concerns the vestiges. How does one know how much to absorb to advance in one's sadhana?"
A flicker of something crossed the Kumar's face—approval, perhaps, or the recognition of a mind that asked the right questions. "A good question. There is no fixed threshold for consumption, nor a benchmark based on rank. It depends solely on the compression of your vidya. Remember, vestiges are temporary. Sadhana is eternal."
Sadhana is eternal.
The words echoed in the caverns of his mind, expanding, filling spaces he hadn't known were empty. He let them settle, let them root themselves in the soil of his ambition.
Ashan bowed deeply. "Thank you for clarifying my doubt."
Kumar Taevor looked toward Elder Zarah and stood. The motion was fluid, unhurried, the movement of someone who had never needed to rush. "It has been a pleasure, Elder Zarah. With your permission, I will take our House's Siddha to our base." A light smile played on his lips—pleasant, meaningless, utterly insincere.
Elder Zarah's ancient black eyes met the Kumar's gaze. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched, taut as a wire about to snap.
"You may." The words were measured, careful. "Ashan is now officially a member of the Order of Arishadvarga."
Ashan observed the stifling tension between them, the way Elder Zarah's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the arm of his chair, the way Kumar Taevor's smile never quite reached his eyes.
External conflicts between the Houses, and internal strife between their factions. He let the observation settle, cold and clear. I wonder how long this fragile alliance will hold.
Kumar Taevor offered a small, sharp smile—the smile of a man who had won something, though the shape of the victory remained unclear. "Praise the Lord of Greed!"
"Praise the Lord of Gluttony!"
They gave their respective salutations, the words falling like stones into the candlelit darkness.
Elder Jinish gestured toward the door. "Arashen Ashan, follow us."
"Yes, Elder." Ashan offered a final, slight bow to Elder Zarah—measured, respectful, the bow of a subordinate to a superior—and fell in behind Kumar Taevor.
Behind him, Elder Zarah's gaze followed his retreating back.
A Siddha is a valuable asset indeed. The old man's thoughts moved in the silence, hidden behind eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore. To possess any siddhi is rare; to possess an anumapah siddhi is rarer still. If he survives and learns to harness his power... the balance will shift.
His face darkened, and in the candlelight, the shadows seemed to deepen.
Ashan emerged from the hut. The night air hit his face—cold, fresh, alive. Below, the sprawl of the Order's cave-base spread out like a wound in the earth, torches flickering along its edges, figures moving in the darkness like insects in a nest.
Kumar Taevor stood at the edge of the raised platform, looking down at it all with an expression that might have been contempt or might have been ownership. "Rejoice, Ashan. You are finally leaving this little cave." He chuckled lightly, the sound swallowed by the vast darkness.
"If you don't mind my asking, my Kumar, where are we going?" Ashan kept his tone carefully polite, the question itself a show of deference rather than genuine curiosity.
Kumar Taevor glanced back at him, amusement flickering in his eyes. "To one of our House bases."
Without warning, Elder Jinish slammed his hands upon the ground.
Rumble!
The raised platform shuddered violently. Stone ground against stone, and somewhere deep in the earth, something groaned in protest.
Unable to keep his balance, Ashan fell to the ground, his palms scraping against the cold rock.
At least give a warning!
He scrambled to his feet. The platform was rising—not a trick of perception, but a true ascent, lifting through the earth like a stone pulled from deep water. The cavern's roof approached, closer, closer—
He looked down.
His team members, drawn by the rumbling, stood far below. Six small figures in the torchlight, their faces tilted upward, watching. Dris with his arms crossed, Roderic's sharp features caught in profile, Ballio's expression soft with something that might have been grief or might have been relief. Imla, Helma, Damara—all of them, frozen in the moment of his departure.
What am I feeling? He turned the question over, examined it, found nothing there but a cold, clear space. Sadness? Happiness? No. But I am grateful for their role in my survival. Now, I need personal power. We will meet again. And when we do, they will once again place their trust in my plans.
He turned his gaze forward.
Rumble!
The roof of the cavern split open. Moonlight flooded the dark space—pure, stark, unforgiving. The nightly air rushed in, cold and fresh, whispering through his layered robes. Ashan's nose twitched at the smell of it: soil, trees, the vast emptiness of a sky that had no ceiling.
Finally. He drew the air deep into his lungs, let it fill him. Leaving this shithole behind.
Kumar Taevor stepped forward first, his boots finding the broken edge of the cavern's roof with the ease of long practice. Elder Jinish followed, his movements slower, more deliberate.
Ashan walked behind them.
He emerged onto the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there, feeling the earth beneath his feet—real earth, not stone carved by hands he could not see. Trees rose around them, their branches black against the moonlit sky. Bushes rustled with the movement of small animals. The air smelled of decay and growth, of things living and dying and living again.
Is this some kind of private island?
He followed the Kumar and the Elder through the undergrowth. The moon hung high, a silver coin pressed flat against the darkness. After a short walk, they halted.
Elder Jinish offered a hand. "Hold it tight."
Ashan obeyed. The old man's grip was dry, firm, the grip of someone who had held onto things longer than most. They took a step forward—
And the world yielded.
It was not a tearing, not a breaking. It was a subtle yielding, a thin veil parting like silk drawn aside. One moment they stood among the trees. The next, salt air filled his lungs, and the vast darkness of the sea stretched before them.
A ship waited at the shore.
It was built of stout, dark wood—robust, medium-sized, the kind of vessel that had seen service and would see more. No flag flew from its mast, no markings to declare its allegiance.
Naval travel. Ashan felt something sink in his chest. Of course.
They descended a narrow path down the cliff, the stones loose beneath their feet, the drop to the water below a long, dark fall. Kumar Taevor simply bounded over the gunwale, landing on the deck with the ease of a man who had done it a thousand times. Elder Jinish followed.
Ashan stared at the ship, at the distance between the cliff and the deck, at the rope that hung from the side like an invitation.
"Arashen Ashan, why are you standing there? Hurry up!" Elder Jinish's voice cut through his hesitation.
"Right!" He grabbed the hanging rope and hauled himself upward, his muscles straining, his palms burning against the coarse fibers.
Couldn't they have brought me up? He pulled, hand over hand, his breath coming in sharp gasps. And what about teleportation? For the House that should be the richest, they're being remarkably cheap.
"Damn! Did you see that?" Dris's voice echoed across the cavern, bouncing off the stone walls.
"Calm down, idiot. We all saw it," Roderic retorted, but there was no heat in his words.
Ballio's expression had softened, the tears gone from his eyes, replaced by something quieter. "Where is he going?"
"To his House." Elder Zarah's voice cut through their chatter as he approached, his footsteps silent on the stone.
"Elder!" They all offered a slight bow, the gesture automatic, ingrained.
"Tomorrow, you will all depart for your own Houses."
The words fell among them like stones dropped into still water. Dris's jaw tightened. Roderic's gaze flickered toward the others, then away. Ballio stood very still, his hands at his sides.
"Tomorrow..." Imla murmured, her gaze sweeping over the others, cataloguing, remembering.
A single, shared thought passed between them: their paths were now diverging.
And in the darkness of the cavern, in the silence that followed, each of them began the slow, painful work of letting go.