Part 2: Masks Beneath Ashes

The heat had returned.

Not the burning winds of war, nor the suffocating smoke of the battlefield, but a subtler kind — the oppressive warmth of stifled identities. The room in which Darian now stood was cramped, lit by a lone lantern that dangled like a noose from the rafters. It swung faintly, shadows dancing like ghosts on the mud walls. Ravi had ordered the door shut. Secrecy hummed in the air like tension before a storm.

Laid out before him were folded clothes, documents, and three small pendants shaped like a coiled snake devouring its own tail.

A symbol of rebirth. Of lies.

"These," Ravi said, voice hushed and measured, "are your new names."

Darian stared at the pendants. The metal looked worn, ancient. Not new — recycled. Perhaps taken off the corpses of others who'd donned false lives.

He lifted one. It was heavier than expected. Cold.

Ravi handed him a parchment sealed with wax. "Your name is now Devran, son of Anirudh, a merchant of Central India who perished in the Eastern skirmishes two years ago. His family vanished after the raid. There are no living records left. The timing, the caste, the region — it all fits."

"And Rian and Mira?" Darian asked softly, eyes not leaving the pendant.

"Devran's younger siblings. Officially, your father owned a modest trade caravan. The caste is Vaishya. Respectable, but not high enough to draw envy. Low enough to blend in, high enough to avoid contempt."

He took a breath, letting the silence between them settle like ash.

"You're no longer Shudra," Ravi added. "And no longer Darian."

For a long time, Darian said nothing. The echo of his name—his real name—rippled like a curse through his mind. Every part of him resisted the change. It wasn't just a label. It was memory. Identity. Rage.

"Why a merchant?" he finally asked, voice flat.

"Because merchants are ghosts. They wander borders. Speak every tongue. Blend into every caste. No one truly sees them — only their coin. In this world, the most invisible man is the one who pays well and asks no questions."

There was truth in that. Darian looked at Ravi, searching for deception. He found none — or rather, none he could read.

Still, the unease coiled in his chest.

"I'll teach you how to act the part," Ravi said. "Walk like a merchant. Think like one. Lie like one."

Darian's lips curled faintly. "I already do."

Ravi chuckled, but his eyes remained sharp.

The following days passed like a fever dream. Layers of their old lives were stripped away, each lie replacing something genuine — an accent, a habit, a memory. Darian taught Mira to bow differently. Rian was coached not to respond when someone used the wrong name.

Every mistake could mean death.

And every death would be on his hands.

Ravi had brought in an old friend — a woman named Paro, once a theater actress from Varanasi. She trained them in posture and tone. Taught them songs merchants' wives might hum. Showed Mira how to dress her hair in the Central style, how to speak like she'd never seen fire dance on the bodies of her kin.

But Mira had seen too much. Her eyes, though young, bore the silent rage of a war orphan. She mimicked the lessons, but Darian could feel it — she hated the lies even more than he did.

Rian adapted quicker. He giggled when Paro made funny faces, played along with stories. But sometimes, at night, Darian would hear him whisper "Are we still us?" in the dark.

Darian never answered.

One evening, Ravi brought Darian alone to a dim corridor behind the house. There was a table set with dried fruit and an old map, drawn in smudged ink. The borders of India were distorted — either by time or by propaganda.

"You've done well, Devran," Ravi said, using the new name deliberately.

Darian sat without reacting. "What is this?"

"A beginning. You're going to learn how a merchant truly survives — not by coin, but by mind. Strategy. Timing. Disguise."

Darian studied the map. "Planning to make me a trader?"

"I'm planning to make you invisible," Ravi replied. "Then, when the time is right — undeniable."

There was a pause.

"Why are you helping us?" Darian asked, finally voicing the question that had haunted him since they arrived.

Ravi looked away, fingers tracing a scar on his forearm. "I owed your father. More than I can repay."

A lie.

Or a half-truth.

But Darian didn't press. He filed the answer away like a weapon — to be sharpened later.

Ravi continued, "In a few days, I'll introduce you to someone. A man who operates in the borderlands. He moves goods, people, names. He can get you papers that even the tax collectors won't question."

"What's the catch?"

Ravi smiled faintly. "That's the first question a real merchant should ask. Good."

Late that night, after the others had slept, Darian walked alone into the courtyard. The wind smelled of dry leaves and distant ash. Above him, stars glittered coldly.

He held the pendant in his palm. Devran. Son of Anirudh. Merchant.

Lies wrapped in gold.

"Father," he whispered, "am I betraying you by forgetting?"

But memory was a ghost that didn't answer.

In the following days, Darian immersed himself in his new life. Paro's drills continued, Ravi taught him ledger-keeping and trade routes, and for the first time in weeks, food became regular. Rian grew healthier. Mira even laughed once.

But Darian never stopped watching. Every interaction, every conversation — all weighed, measured, stored. If someone betrayed them, he would know.

That paranoia kept him alive.

One night, Ravi tested him.

He sent a man disguised as a city guard to the house, demanding to inspect their documents. Rian panicked. Mira froze.

But Darian stepped forward, papers in hand, posture straight. He played the role of a merchant's son so flawlessly that the stranger left with a respectful bow.

Later, Ravi grinned at him across a clay cup of tea. "You're learning."

Darian didn't smile back. "You're testing."

"Always."

By the seventh day, Ravi summoned him alone to the back chamber.

"I've secured your passage."

"To where?"

"To the Ghats. East of Gwalior. There's a monastery there. Abandoned now. But someone waits for you."

Darian narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

"A ghost from your father's past. His name is Rudrak."

The name was foreign. Heavy. "And why would he help?"

"He won't. Not unless you earn it."

Darian was silent.

"Then I'll earn it," he said.

Ravi leaned forward. "He doesn't teach kindness. Or technique. Only survival. If you fail his trials, he'll cast you out."

"And if I pass?"

Ravi's smile was unreadable. "Then you'll be reborn."

The night before they were to leave, Darian sat beside Mira and Rian in silence. The fire crackled low. Outside, the world seemed too still — like it held its breath.

Rian was half-asleep, curled into Mira's lap. She watched Darian with wary eyes.

"We'll be safe?" she asked, not for the first time.

Darian didn't answer right away. Then he leaned forward, took the pendant from his neck, and held it out to her.

She stared.

"I don't care about names," he said. "Or masks. Or lies."

Her fingers closed over the pendant.

"I only care that we live."

"Bury your name in ash — let it burn with the dead.Let your tongue speak silver — not truth, but survival.Only those who forget themselves can wear the world's mask."— Lines from the Vaishya Merchant's Creed