The Adjudicator counted.
Slow.
Methodical.
"SIX."
Bharat's lungs burned. The Oath Corridor twisted around them like something alive—walls pulsing, floor rippling, air thick enough to choke on.
Mira stumbled.
He caught her. Kept moving.
"SEVEN."
Behind them, light bled through the doorway. Not gold anymore—black. Light that didn't illuminate. Light that erased. Every surface it touched stopped existing, folded into nothing like paper fed to flames.
The figure at the corridor's end still hadn't moved.
Still holding the Ritual Codex. Still wearing Bharat's face like a mask it had stolen.
"Which one of us is real?" it asked.
Voice identical. Perfect mimicry. Even the slight rasp from when he'd screamed during the Mark extraction.
Mira's grip tightened on his arm.
"Don't listen—"
"I'm not."
But he was. Because the thing wearing his face was smiling. The way he smiled when he'd figured out an angle. When he knew he'd won.
"EIGHT."
The corridor floor cracked. Fissures racing toward them like frozen lightning, and beneath—
Beneath—
Eyes.
Thousands of them. Blinking open in perfect sequence.
Watching.
Judging.
Waiting.
Bharat's phone buzzed.
Impossible—there was no signal this deep. The temple ate frequencies like it ate hope.
But the screen lit up anyway.
[PEACOCK]: You're about to die. Want help or want to be dramatic?
He almost laughed.
Almost.
"NINE."
The thing with his face stepped forward.
"You can't run from yourself," it said.
"Watch me."
Bharat typed one-handed, still dragging Mira forward.
[BHARAT]: Cut the power. Everything. Now.
[PEACOCK]: That'll kill the wards. You'll be alone with whatever's in there.
[BHARAT]: We're already alone.
[PEACOCK]: Your funeral. Literally.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
The lights died.
Not darkness.
Absence.
Like someone had reached into the world and scooped out the concept of light, left only void.
Bharat froze.
Mira's breathing was the only sound—quick, shallow, fighting panic.
Then:
Movement.
Not sight. Not sound. Just the pressure of something large shifting in the black.
The Adjudicator laughed.
"YOU THINK DARKNESS WILL SAVE YOU?"
Its voice came from everywhere. Nowhere. Inside his skull and a thousand miles away simultaneously.
"I WAS BORN IN DARKNESS."
"BEFORE LIGHT."
"BEFORE THOUGHT."
"BEFORE YOU."
Bharat's hand found Mira's.
Squeezed once.
Trust me.
She squeezed back.
Trusting.
He moved.
Not forward. Sideways. Following the wall by touch, pulling Mira with him. The corridor had been straight before—but temples didn't follow geometry when the lights went out.
His foot hit something soft.
Warm.
Breathing.
A guard.
Temple security. Must've been stationed outside the vault, now blind as everyone else.
The guard swung.
Bharat felt the air move. Ducked. Felt the fist pass over his head close enough to graze hair.
Grabbed the arm.
Twisted.
Hard.
Something popped. The guard screamed—cut short when Bharat's elbow found throat.
Body dropped.
Bharat took the knife.
Temple-forged. He could feel the script carved into the blade, thrumming faintly like a second pulse.
"Bharat—"
Mira's voice. Close but muffled, like she was speaking through water.
"Here."
"I can't—I can't see—"
"Neither can I."
"Then how—"
"Counting steps. Feeling walls. Same way you danced when the stage lights died in rehearsal."
Pause.
"How do you know about that?"
"You told Ayesha. She told me."
"Why would she—"
"Because she's been reporting to me for three weeks."
Silence.
Then:
"You bastard."
No heat in it. Almost… impressed.
"Later," Bharat said.
"If there is a later."
"There will be."
He pulled her forward. Twelve steps. Turn left. Eight more.
The thing with his face spoke again.
Closer now.
"You're going the wrong way."
"Good."
"The exit is behind you."
"Don't want the exit."
"Then what do you want?"
Bharat smiled in the dark.
"The Codex you're holding."
Silence.
Then laughter.
Not the Adjudicator's vast, inhuman sound.
Human laughter.
Familiar.
"Smart," the thing said.
"Smarter than the last five versions of you."
"There won't be a sixth."
"No?"
"No."
Bharat stopped walking.
Felt the air shift. Pressure changing. Something large moving in the void to his right.
The Adjudicator.
Still counting.
"TEN."
The world exploded.
Not sound. Not light.
Force.
Pure kinetic will slamming into him like a freight train made of divine contempt.
Bharat flew.
Hit wall. Ribs screamed. Shared-pain contract flared and suddenly Mira was gasping too, her ribs breaking in sympathy.
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Could only—
Wait.
Something was wrong.
The Adjudicator had hit him.
Should've erased him.
But he was still here. Still solid. Still real.
Why?
Answer:
The Mark.
He'd offered the Mark. The Adjudicator had accepted the Mark.
Contract fulfilled.
Judgment… suspended?
Bharat coughed blood.
Tasted copper and something else—burnt ozone, like lightning had kissed his tongue.
"Mira—"
"Here."
Her voice. Distant. Pained.
"Can you move?"
"Can you?"
"Not well."
"Then we match."
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Human-sized.
The thing with his face.
"You're still thinking like prey," it said.
"And you're still talking like you've won."
"Haven't I?"
Bharat felt along the floor. Found the knife. Gripped it.
"Not yet."
He threw.
Hard.
Fast.
Aimed at the voice.
Impact.
Wet sound.
Gasp.
Then:
Laughter.
"Good throw," the thing said.
"But I'm not where my voice is."
"I know."
Bharat was already moving. Toward the sound of the knife hitting flesh—which meant toward the wall. Which meant the thing had thrown its voice. Old trick. Magicians did it. Spirits too.
But it had to throw from somewhere.
Somewhere close.
His hand found fabric.
Expensive fabric.
A suit.
He grabbed.
Pulled.
Drove his fist forward.
Connected.
Hard.
Nose.
Cartilage crunched.
Blood sprayed.
The thing screamed—
—and the Codex fell.
Bharat's fingers closed on leather.
Old leather.
Warm.
Pulsing.
Alive.
The Ritual Codex.
He could feel it. Every page a heartbeat. Every word a breath. The thing was aware—not intelligent, but conscious. Like holding a sleeping animal that might wake.
Lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
On.
Peacock's doing.
The wards were down. Emergency generators kicking in. Dim red light flooded the corridor—just enough to see by.
Enough to see:
The thing with his face wasn't a thing.
It was a man.
Mid-forties. Temple robes. Bloody nose.
Rajan.
No—not Rajan.
Rajan's brother.
Karan.
The one who'd "died" in a car accident three years ago.
The one Mira had mentioned once—
—and then never mentioned again.
Karan smiled.
Blood on his teeth.
"Surprised?"
Bharat stared.
"You're supposed to be dead."
"I was."
"And?"
"Got better."
Karan pushed himself upright. Wiped blood from his face with a sleeve that probably cost more than a car.
"The temple doesn't let go of useful tools," he said.
"Even dead ones."
Behind him, the Adjudicator stood motionless. Watching. Waiting.
Not intervening.
Why?
Answer came from Karan's next words:
"You fulfilled the contract. Offered the Mark. The Adjudicator accepted."
"So?"
"So it can't kill you."
"Yet."
"Yet."
Karan stepped forward.
"But I can."
"You can try."
"I don't need to try."
He gestured at the Codex in Bharat's hands.
"You're holding the temple's memory. Every covenant. Every sacrifice. Every name."
"And?"
"And if you damage it—"
Karan's smile widened.
"—the god will remember you."
"It already knows me."
"No. It notices you. Like you notice an ant. But if you tear a page—"
He leaned in. Close enough Bharat could smell blood and incense.
"—you become personal."
"The god will hunt you. Not through servants. Not through contracts."
"Itself."
Silence.
Then:
Ayesha's voice.
"BHARAT!"
Explosions.
Distant but getting closer.
Doors slamming open.
Gunfire.
Ayesha.
And backup.
Karan's expression flickered. Annoyance. Calculation.
"Your friends are loud," he said.
"They try."
"Won't matter."
"We'll see."
Karan looked at the Codex. Then at Bharat.
"You won't tear it."
"Why not?"
"Because you're not stupid. You know what happens when gods take things personally."
"Maybe I don't care."
"You care about her."
Karan nodded toward Mira.
She was on her knees. Breathing hard. Wrist still bleeding black where the Mark had been.
"Tear a page," Karan said quietly, "and the god won't just hunt you."
"It'll hunt everyone you've touched."
"Everyone you've loved."
"Your mother. Your allies. Your—"
He smiled.
"—your wife."
Bharat's grip tightened on the Codex.
Pages rustled.
Like they were listening.
Like they were waiting.
Karan stepped back.
"Go ahead," he said.
"Tear it."
"Buy yourself time."
"Thirty days. Maybe more."
"But know this:"
His voice dropped. Cold. Certain.
"The god will come."
"Not today. Not tomorrow."
"But it will come."
"And when it does—"
He looked at Mira.
"—everyone you love will burn first."
Footsteps pounding closer.
Ayesha's voice:
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
Bharat stared at the Codex.
At the pages.
At the choice.
Behind him, the Adjudicator spoke.
"DECIDE."
Not a command.
A question.
"WILL YOU TEAR?"
"OR WILL YOU SUBMIT?"
Bharat looked at Mira.
She met his eyes.
Nodded once.
Do it.
He looked at Karan.
At the smug certainty in his face.
Then at the Codex.
Pages thin as skin.
Script written in something darker than ink.
He found the first page.
The one with his name.
Contract of the Groom.
Deadline: 22 days.
He smiled.
"I choose option three."
Karan frowned.
"There is no—"
Bharat ripped.