The Storm Beneath the Table

The moon rode low over Ashwan, a silver coin tarnished by dust from the desert. Shaurya Jaydev waited in the shade of a ruined shrine, arms folded, gaze fixed on the extravagant sheen of the Diamond Table in the distance. Its chandelier-lit dome shone like a mirage, a seductive tune of power and betrayal.

Tonight, however, Shaurya would hush its melody.

Around him, his meager group of companions prepared. Slumpeople rescued by him, toughened to brutality but ablaze with burning determination, mouthed prayers and tested weary blades. Among them, Mira went about with quiet steps, her dexterous hands plaiting a little girl's hair, speaking soothing words in the girl's ear. Shaurya observed her for a second. That gentleness. it grounded him.

"General," Udai Kesari's voice broke his thoughts. The young prince approached, adjusting his ill-fitting armor. His movements were stiff, but his grip on the sword was firmer than before.

Shaurya eyed him critically. "Your stance is still too rigid. Remember, a blade sings when the body flows."

Udai grimaced. "Easy to say for a man who dances with vines."

At that, Mira snorted softly, hiding a smile. Udai caught it, his ears tinging red. "Something funny, Lady Mira?"

She met his gaze, her smile turning sly. "Just admiring your poetic aspirations, Prince. A man who fights like a falling tower speaking of songs."

Udai opened his mouth to retort but found himself… smiling. A genuine, lopsided grin. Shaurya saw it—the beginnings of camaraderie, perhaps more. He said nothing.

"We strike during the feast," Shaurya continued, his voice a low growl. "Security will be lax, focused on the grand hall. Our entry point is through the dry aqueduct beneath the eastern wing. Quiet, swift, precise."

He unfurled a rough map, the ink faded but serviceable. Mira leaned in, her shoulder brushing Udai's. Neither flinched.

"Inside, we divide. Udai, you take the diversion in the gallery corridors. Get the guards. Mira, with me. We go down to the lower levels."

"To the Paatal Rasoi," Mira replied, her voice hardening.

Shaurya nodded grimly. "No more ghosts lurking beneath silk. Tonight, we bring them into the light."

A breeze disturbed the shrine, raising dust into whirlwinds that flickered quickly out. The Diamond Table glimmered far off, oblivious to the tempest building at its base.

At the bottom of the Diamond Table, the air was off.

It trembled—not with cold, but with a heaviness, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. In the center of the Paatal Rasoi, glass vats filled the room, glowing softly and evilly. Inside them floated not bodies, but shards—organs, bones, strands of spirit-stuff, suspended like obscene jewels.

The thin man paced between them, fingers quivering with pleasure. "Improvement, sir," he whispered, speaking to the looming figure beside the door.

Chirag Mithra advanced, his customary aplomb brittle tonight. His eyes swept the hideous assembly. "Display it."

With a wave, the twins ran to a stone pedestal. On it lay a new mantra plate—larger, inscribed not in plain spirals, but in a maze of crimson script. The boy touched a flint; sparks fluttered along the grooves.

The room throbbed.

From the vats, the pieces trembled. Strings of smoke curled around each other, coalescing into form—half-human, half-vapour. Its face was incomplete, wavering between pain and fury. But its voice… its voice was distinct.

"Bind me… command me…"

Chirag's breathing caught. "A bound spirit. Complete. Obedient."

The smile of the thin man was hunger pure. "It took many failures. But with every death, the pattern improved. The mantra stabilizes their being—no longer ghosts from flesh, but weapons."

The twins applauded in chilling unison. "They sing to us now."

Chirag extended a hand, fingertips grazing the mantra plate. It was warm. Alive.

Paatal Rasoi had birthed something horrific.

And it was ready.

In a secret room of the Diamond Table, beyond the nobles' laughter above and the terrors below, Chirag Mithra ignited the last incense stick. The air immediately thickened with tendrils of violet smoke. On the floor before him was a mantra plate—not one of his own poor tools, but a perfect disc presented by Dhairyaveer Mithra himself. Its surface glimmered like immobile blood.

Chirag knelt, his palms flattened against its rim. He breathed, slow and deliberate.

"By blood, by bond, by breath—carry my words across the veil."

The plate of mantra reacted. The sigils flared, burning inward like thirsty mouths drinking his voice. The air hummed.

Cold crept into the space.

Then the response.

A ripple in the smoke. A form materialized, not as flesh, but as a living shadow—broad-shouldered, imperious, the unmistakable presence of Dhairyaveer Mithra. His crimson eyes burned through the fog, sharp as knives.

"Report, Chirag."

Chirag bowed lower, pride concealed behind layers of obsequiousness. "The Paatal Rasoi has borne fruit, my lord. The new version has stabilized. The spirits no longer disperse—they bind. Bounded, compliant. As weapons, as scouts, as vessels."

Dhairyaveer's silhouette leaned a fraction, the movement almost. satisfied. "How many usable specimens?"

"One flawless. Three hopeful. The others—" Chirag paused, "--were devoured. But the curve of refinement steepens. Soon we can extract more from every batch."

Flicker of teeth in the shadow's smile. "And Bhujraj has no suspicions?"

"Rasmika is still blind. Her arrogance renders her deaf to murmurs under her own feet. For the moment."

"Good. This is only the beginning, Chirag. Well done."

Chirag let out a breath, tension dissipating. "The Diamond Table shall be your forge, my lord. From its ashes, we shall craft spirits tied by will alone."

Dhairyaveer's voice dropped, silk wrapping steel. "And Shaurya Jaydev? What of him?"

"Restless," Chirag conceded. "But contained. For the moment. His heart is manageable. And hearts are softer to break than heads."

The shadow leaned forward, voice a dark omen. "See that it remains so. Until I tell you otherwise."

With one last burst of light, the mantra plate went dark. The bond was broken.

Chirag leaned back, breathing slowly.

The game was speeding up.

And the pieces were falling into place.

The wind from the Ashwan cliffs was cold tonight, cutting across the intricately carved balustrades of Bhujraj Palace. Rasmika stood at the high parapet, her arms across her chest, gazing at the city lights burning like embers on the verge of extinction. Behind her, the deliberate tread of her steward sounded.

"Talk," she said, without moving.

The steward bent low. "My lady, there are whispers under the Diamond Table."

Rasmika's eyes narrowed. "Whispers?"

"From the lower wards. Survivors speak in hushed tones of shadows stirring beneath the palace. Of screams stifled by stone. Of… experiments."

The word seemed to hover in the air.

"Rumors are the coin of fools," Rasmika said icily. "And you bring them to me."

"Because these rumors spread too fast. And too near. The name 'Paatal Rasoi' was mentioned, my lady."

For an instant, Rasmika's poise broke. Barely. "Who among you defiles Bhujraj's honor under my own roof?"

The steward did not speak.

Her nails drummed the stone balustrade, crisp and insistent. "Send my Seekers. In secret. I desire the truth. And I desire it this night."

"As you wish."

As the steward disappeared into the dark, Rasmika's smile grew thin and deadly.

"Fools forget," she breathed. "Bhujraj does not share her table."