Mourn of Victory

At first, nothing.

Not the ringing of bells. Not the pulse of mantra-flow through city arteries. Only the quiet rustle of blown ash settling on shattered tile, as light as remorse.

Ashwan was motionless.

From the highest spires to the broken lowest alleys, all was still. Not the serenity of healing, but the shocked stillness of something endured—but not yet grasped.

The air was filled with the smell of burned glyphs and the residue of spirits. Here and there, small light glimmered where threads of mantra had broken, quivering now like the nerves of a slain beast. Phantoms of warding circles glowed beneath the feet in the cobblestones, quivering like dreams unfinished.

Then the first noise happened.

The hand of a child rang a fractured brass bell.

It produced no ring—only a dull, hollow clink. He tried again, using a sliver of wood to hit it. Nothing.

Another child next to him whispered a prayer, softly—more from habit than expectation.

A bit further down the temple street, a wizened priest set out on aching knees before the mural of Bodhi Devi that covered the Gate of Sunlight. Her face—once painted in lapis and cinnabar—was cracked, her eyes half-flaked away. The priest inserted his fingers into a vessel of dust and attempted to restore her smile with tremulous hands.

Behind him, someone started brushing ash from their doorstep with a makeshift broom fashioned from prayer reeds. Slow. Rhythmic. Intentional. The one spot of clarity in a city of static.

On Vajrana Street, a fire still licked the rim of a spirit-cart—but no one dared put it out. Not because they didn't care. But because they hadn't yet learned what to do next.

And over all, like a sigh winding its way through alley and ruin both, the wind came back—hesitant, as if it no longer believed the city could contain it.

The square where Parshvananda disappeared still glimmered, lightly.

Not with glory. Not even with remembrance. Simply with… absence.

Shaurya stood alone among the wreckage, his armor charred and hanging in shreds, his shoulder half-bound with ragged silk someone had offered him in passing. He gazed down at the stone—at the solitary glyph charred lightly into it.

A spiral.

Not a sign of power.

A sign of return.

He didn't say anything. Not initially. He stood for a long time, eyes closed, as if holding his breath for the echo that never arrived.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps.

Rasmika limped through to the plaza, each step stiff with agony. Her thigh was hacked up badly. Her chain-glyph gauntlet was broken beyond repair and buckled on her hip like a badge of survival. Her once-sapphire cloak now dripped in streaks of blood and smoke.

"You should be resting," Shaurya said without turning.

"I'm not dead," she replied, flat.

"That wasn't the point."

"No, it was," she said quietly. "And I'm not. So let me stand here."

She did.

They stood together, not side by side, but close enough.

"I went back to the East Ridge," she murmured after a time. "The shrine of the Seven Blades is gone. Collapsed."

Shaurya nodded. "I saw."

A longer silence passed.

When she finally broke her silence, her tone was softer.

"We fought together," she told him, "not as heir and shadow. Not as student and teacher. You and I—fought as one."

Shaurya shifted in his direction, eyes worn, but gentle. "You outdid me years ago."

"You never said that."

"I didn't need to. I saw it."

She regarded him then—not with pride, or competition—but something deeper. Something flickering in a quiet place of grief.

He was hesitant, then moved forward. There was more to tell. And it thrummed against his ribs like a sword unsheathed too long.

"Rasmika."

She ducked her head. "Hmm?"

Shaurya did not want to talk.

Not here. Not amidst the ash still falling across the plaza where they'd nearly died a second time.

But Rasmika regarded him—bared, scarred, in need of something.

"What is it?" she croaked.

"I should've told you sooner," he said, slowly. "But I thought you knew. I thought someone would've—"

She straightened a bit. "Who?"

"…Arun Raj."

That name froze the world.

She blinked. "He's not dead."

He did not reply.

"No," she said again. "I would've known."

Shaurya gazed at her, and his silence spoke the truth more than anything else.

"He died at Mithra Tower," he said softly. "Second day. Held the east corridor until it fell."

She stumbled back, as though he had hit her. Her leg buckled beneath the bandages. She steadied herself on a splintered pillar.

"I—he—" she started, but couldn't continue.

Her jaw shook. Her breathing shortened. And then—nothing. Her eyes rolled back, her body finally collapsing under the strain of too many fights, too many losses she hadn't been able to mourn.

Shaurya caught her before she crumpled, his hands cradling the back of her head as she slipped into unconsciousness.

He sat down slowly, holding her there, feeling how light she'd become. Her scars were proof of purpose. But she had no armor left for this.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

There was no answer but the soft wind over ash.

The roof was still.

Here, the Ashwan sky continued to shudder weakly, its color between violet and ash. Glyph-fires danced in shattered temple spires far down, casting long shadows across the plaza Parshvananda had disappeared from.

Ashah leaned against the ledge, elbows on knees, fingers tapping anxiously along the edge of an etched-pendant mantra. He hadn't known he'd held on to it—the tiny ivory chime the Thin Man had given him years before, when his hands still trembled with fear leading up to every ritual test.

Arya stood behind him, not speaking. Her robes had been cleaned, but the soot had seeped into her voice.

He told us we were tools," she said softly.

Ashah's voice trembled. "And we believed him."

Arya moved closer, sat next to him. "He told me not to get too attached to anything. Not even you."

He gazed up at her. "Did you?"

She stood her ground, meeting his eyes. "No."

A long silence followed.

"He didn't want us to mourn him," Ashah said finally. "He thought he didn't deserve that.

Arya gazed down at the charred plaza, where the ritual glyph had burned away—nothing remaining but a faint scorch in the form of a circle.

"But he was wrong," she told him. "He does."

Ashah held the chime to his palm. "I hated him. Sometimes. For what he made us endure. The riddles, the trials, the way that he never spoke anything directly."

Arya's eyes shone, but she did not blink. "He was afraid he'd turn us into him. That's why he always stood just far enough away."

"But in the end." Ashah's voice trembled. "He didn't leave like a coward. He left like a father."

Arya rested her head on his shoulder. The wind bore the sound of shattered bells and faraway prayers. Neither said anything for a long time.

Then, softly:

"Did he ever actually teach us how to live?" Ashah asked.

Arya breathed. "No. But he taught us how to choose."

The silence enveloped them once more—not empty, but shared.

Two orphans in name. Children in truth.

And far below, the square was empty—yet not alone.