Rakshasa’s Mirror
"The worst enemy is the version of you that gave up."
They found the mirror buried beneath the temple ruins.
Not a mirror, exactly — a slab of black stone, polished until it reflected light like water.
But it didn't show your reflection.
It showed the other you.
The one you could have been — if you had made the wrong choices.
Yash stood before it, silent.
Khushi gripped his coat.
"That's not you, is it…?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Because the figure in the mirror was him.
White hair. White eyes.
But the skin was etched with burnt veins, like lava under ice.
And it smiled.
"You protected them. I devoured them," it said.
"But we both did it for love."
Mira and Ankita tried to pull Yash back. The reflection moved when he moved — but also moved when he didn't.
It wasn't delayed.
It was free.
"Who are you?" Yash asked aloud.
"I'm the you she didn't choose," it said, voice echoing.
"So I found another."
In the mirror world, behind the reflection, stood a dark goddess.
Her silhouette flickered with snakes, knives, and moons.
She whispered to the mirror-Yash in a language no one understood — but the meaning was clear.
She had made her own Vira.
A Rakshasa-Vira.
Yash felt the mark on his back burn.
His divine form flared briefly, unbidden.
And the mirror-Yash laughed.
"You burn for the world."
"I burn it for fun."
Then the mirror cracked.
Just slightly.
Just once.
But enough.
Enough to let something through.
That night, in his dreams, Yash saw a version of himself —
knee-deep in blood, laughing, worshipped by monsters.
He woke up screaming.