The foul words of the Asurain spewed out of his mouth.
Now, the pronunciation was becoming easier. The syllables that had once tripped on his tongue, that had resisted being shaped into anything but crude approximations of their true forms, now flowed with something approaching fluency. And yet—it felt as though it took less time to utter the words. The mantra, which had once stretched across seconds, now compressed into moments. The spaces between syllables had grown shorter, the cadence more natural, more his.
Ashan continued to speak them aloud, again and again, letting the sound fill the silence of his hut, letting the vibration of it settle into his bones. But he did not cast the mantra. The urja remained coiled in his core, waiting, watching.
What does [Combat Bolt] mean?
The question echoed within his mind, reverberating off the walls of his thoughts, refusing to settle.
A dark azure bolt strikes the user's target.
He let the definition surface, examined it, turned it over.
To kill the target quickly.
Is that all there is to it?
His brow furrowed as he contemplated the true nature of the [Combat Bolt] mantra, peeling back the layers of meaning, searching for something that lay beneath the surface, something that the simple description could not capture.
Then—his ear caught a faint sound. Barely audible. The voice was distorted. Incomplete.
A whisper at the edge of hearing. A word that was almost a word, a shape that was almost a meaning. He reached for it, and it slipped away.
...
[Zarim Valeh — Desert Expanse]
Golden rays of the sun scorched the endless dunes below, the heat rising in waves that made the horizon shimmer and dance. Dry, violent winds howled across the vast sand seas, tearing through the air, carrying grit that stung the eyes and scoured the skin.
"Ah! It's too hot here!" The voice was irritated, the words spat out between cracked lips.
The speaker wore the robes of the House of Wrath, the red fabric dark with sweat, clinging to his skin. Dris's cracked lips parted as he continued cursing under his breath, each curse a small rebellion against the sun, the sand, the endless, grinding heat.
Why the hell did we come here?
He walked behind others dressed in the same attire, their faces hidden behind bull and tiger masks, their forms reduced to shapes that moved across the dunes like things that did not belong. Though he hated every step he took, the sand working its way into his boots, the heat pressing down on his shoulders like a weight, he did not complain aloud. There were things worse than heat. There were things worse than sand.
Howl! Howl!
The wind suddenly came alive—birthing a raging sandstorm that rose from the horizon like a wall of amber, swallowing the sky, swallowing the light. The person at the front halted abruptly, hand raised, and everyone stopped, waiting for orders, their forms blurring in the thickening air.
Now a sandstorm too? Dris's eyes narrowed against the stinging grit. I heard we came to hunt something... is the sandstorm the prey?
Shake! Shake!
The ground trembled violently, sand churning, rising, falling away as something emerged from below. The dunes shifted, cracked, split open.
"Oh, fuck me."
Dris's hands clenched as his legs trembled, the vibration running up through his boots, his knees, his spine. Worms—a group of them—burst from the sand in a spray of grit and heat, their metallic bodies gleaming beneath the golden sun, their segments grinding against each other with a sound like iron dragged across stone.
Shriek! Shriek!
They announced their presence with cries that cut through the howling wind, that set the teeth on edge, that seemed to vibrate in the bones.
"Attack—now!"
The command cut through the chaos. A torrent of mantra and kiriya clashed violently against the worms—fire and earth and force, light that blinded and shadows that swallowed. Dris joined in, refusing to let fear slow him, his hands already moving, the words of Ashurain already forming on his lips.
I wonder how strong Ashan has become now. The thought surfaced unbidden, and he let it go, let it be carried away by the wind. There was work to do. There was always work to do.
....
[Sitayana Rajyam]
A group of figures moved beneath the cover of night, their steps silent, their forms shadows among shadows. After advancing in silence, they reached the appointed corner—a place where the walls pressed close, where the moonlight did not reach, where voices could be held and secrets could be kept.
Five in total. Three wore spider masks, the intricate patterns of their faces catching what little light there was. Two wore wolf masks, their snouts long, their eyes hollow.
House of Envy.
One of the spider-masked figures spoke in a deep voice that carried no farther than the circle. "How is our intelligence network functioning?"
"It is stable." The answer came quickly, professionally. "We've established strong information sources throughout the southern provinces of the Rajyam."
The speaker hesitated, and the silence that followed was heavy with something unspoken.
"What is it?"
"The Rajyam's movements have grown... strange." The words were careful, measured. "More active, if that's the right term."
A wolf-masked figure spoke next, his voice rough, impatient. "It's true that troop numbers are increasing in the south." He gestured sharply, the motion cutting the air. "But what's strange about that? They've always sought expansion—bringing the southern tribes under their rule." There was anger in his tone, and beneath it, something that might have been disdain.
The first speaker responded again, his voice softer now, more cautious. "Rumours are spreading. Ones I don't think we should ignore."
"What kind of rumours?"
"They say vast numbers of skeletons have been sighted beneath the snowlands." A pause. "Some even claim the skeletons are walking."
I don't know whether it's true or not. The thought was a whisper in the silence, held close, shared by all of them. But after enduring the Order's trials, I believe nothing is impossible anymore.
The spider-masked leader remained silent for a long moment, his masked face turned toward the moonless sky, his thoughts moving behind the hollow eyes of his mask.
"I've already reported this to the House." His voice was low, deliberate. "It could also be a trap—Sitayana's attempt to invade the southern tribes." He turned back to the group, his posture shifting, the discussion over. "For now, maintain our intelligence network."
"Praise the Lady of Greed!"
"Praise the Lady of Greed!"
After their salutation, they dispersed in different directions, their forms swallowed by the darkness, their footsteps fading into the silence of the night.
I wonder what Ashan is doing now. Imla's thoughts moved with her as she walked, her steps carrying her through streets that were not her own, through a city that was not her home. And more importantly... how am I supposed to advance to Arohan, given the peculiar condition I—no, we all seven—share.
She shook her head, the gesture small, contained. The moon was setting, the sky lightening toward dawn. Cold winds swept past, carrying the first flakes of snow that settled on her shoulders, her mask, the dark fabric of her robes.
Even the cold is worsening now.
She continued beneath the fading moonlight, and behind her, the snow began to fall in earnest.
...
Ashan remained deep within his sadhana.
Sunlight that once filtered through the window had long since given way to moonlight, and the moonlight had given way to something else—a stillness that was not quite dark, a silence that was not quite empty. He had lost track of time, of the hours passing, of the world outside.
Kill? The thought surfaced, turned over, revealed its edges. Strength? Speed? Defense?
His thoughts revolved endlessly around these aspects of the [Combat Bolt] mantra, each one a door he opened, examined, closed. The faint sound in his ear—the distorted, incomplete voice—grew louder, then softer, then louder again, as if it were circling him, waiting for him to reach for it.
Whenever he focused on a single aspect—kill—the sound sharpened slightly, became almost recognizable, almost understandable. Then it slipped away, leaving only the echo of what it had been.
Does the nature of [Combat Bolt] lie in one of these... or in all of them together?
He let the question hang, let it fill the space behind his eyes.
Or am I approaching this from the wrong direction entirely?
The mantra echoed in his mind, its syllables worn smooth by repetition, its meaning worn thin. He reached for it again, and this time, something shifted. The sound in his ear—the voice that was not quite a voice—seemed to lean closer, seemed to almost form words.
Then it was gone.
And Ashan sat in the darkness, waiting for it to return.