A heavy feeling filled the air of Shantinivas Inn, pressing down on everyone hunched over the tables. The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation tried to mask the unease, but it was impossible to miss. Eyes shifted nervously, lips tightened into thin lines, and jaws clenched. The people here carried pain, frustration, and resentment, but they kept their anger away from the true sources of their misery. Speaking the truth would only bring them more trouble.
Instead, they grumbled about the pawns who danced to the tune of their masters and all those suppressed emotions morphed into a dark shadow that dared not leave the inn.
Amidst this farce, I stood in the farthest corner, wrapped in stillness—one that could have been shattered by many triggers: an insult wielding the right words, the mere utterance of the name of the one who had taken my lover’s life, or the piercing gaze of a guard trying to force fear into my eyes, which remained disturbingly calm.
"Beneath the veneer of my stillness, I carried a secret far greater and far more dangerous than anything shared within the inn—a flame that refused to be soothed, fueled by a tragedy heavier than a mountain and yearning for a fate darker than the abyss. It was a death knell, the destroyer of all that sought to stand between me and my ambition. Patiently, I, Indrasena Taraka, waited—waited for the wise men to lead me to the one who held the key to paradise.
*****
It was the third day of imprisonment, and the traitor of the Triloka Empire waited for his chronicler. Sat in a dimly lit corner was he, strongly constrained, with his hands and legs shackled by divyaloha chains—etched with arcanist engravings that prevented him from using his mana.
His prison cell lay deep underground, far from the brushstrokes of the ever-burning sun. The unbearable heat made him long for a formless kiss—one that could wipe away the perspiration sparkling like pearls under the waning light of a lone lamp.
"The doors to his prison creaked and groaned as two guards, swathed in leather armor and black bull masks, pushed them open. With them came a young woman, draped in a blue cotton saree adorned with minimal patterns—elegant without being gaudy. She strode into the cell with the predatory grace of a lioness."
“You wanted me, here I am,” the woman spoke.
The rebel lifted his head and gave her a smug, satisfied smile.
“I half expected to be killed on sight by the wise men,” He said, dragging an index finger across his throat.
“Good morning, Indra, leader of the traitorous Asuras. My name is Arshia, the first sword of the empire, the shadow of the emperor, the silver of divinity who watches over the three realms.”
She brought her palms together and gently pressed them. She did not bow her head, refusing to show reverence to her lesser. That brought a smile to the rebel’s face. Nothing amused him more than ucchavarnas and their elaborate way of greeting someone, befitting their caste.
"Morning?" he asked, eyes wide. "I can't tell in this prison. I've been here long enough to hear the shadows whisper. You can't imagine how fascinating their conversations are—the madder one becomes, the more eloquent their words."
Two servants followed her inside, carrying a chair. Arishia settled into it, her gaze fixed on the rebel, watching with the intensity of a cat eyeing a mouse. Moments later, four more servants entered—two carrying a table, while the others brought bamboo pens, parchments, and bottles of carbon-based ink. They positioned the table between the two, arranged the stationery and swiftly departed.
Arshia traced her index finger through the air, inky blue mana seeping from its invisible pores as she drew a curve. When the curve was complete, she uttered, “Stha,” and it stayed in place. She then traced another curve, repeating the word once it was finished. She continued this process with more curves and dots until they formed a glyph resembling an owl.
“Ekikuru,” she said sharply, and the glyph blazed to life.
It morphed into tendrils of light and merged with the contours of Arishia’s eyes. While the hue of her eyes remained unchanged, the rebel noticed the effects.
“Ah, the owl glyph. Quite useful for nightly escapades. I remember using it once to meet an ancient and peculiar individual—we had a truly fascinating conversation.” He paused, his eyebrows furrowing thoughtfully.
“In this situation, couldn’t you have used an extra lamp instead of expending a significant amount of mana?” the rebel asked, raising his eyebrows in a playful, exaggerated manner before flashing a sly grin.
“You want to discern lies from truth? Not bad, kid. Smart thinking!” he said with an approving nod.
“I am not a child, and this is no time for prattling. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Tell me why you surrendered so suddenly? Why did you disappear for two years? How did you become one of us and taint the sacred halls of Vishwavidyalaya? And how did you become man- “
Her lips pressed tightly together. “Mantravid, or you might call me a wizard, like the extinct people of the West,” He finished for her, smiling rather proudly. “I know you abhor it, but face the truth. I am one of the greatest mantravid in centuries. My tale spread across the continent, and several have already seen what I am capable of.”
“You are a pompous deceiver, nothing more,” she spat, her words laced with palpable contempt.
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The rebel grinned, amused by the bitterness in her tone. “You should ask the right questions, girl. Questions like why I chose you.”
“Very well. Enlighten me then. Why did you pick me? What is it about me that compelled you to surrender and share your secrets?”
The rebel’s smug grin widened.
“You will learn about it at the very end of my story. I promise you that with proper context, your involvement would make perfect sense.”
Arishia slammed her fists on the table, sending pens clattering to the floor.
“Enough!” she said, her voice sharp and resolute. “I need transparency, not vague hints and half-truths. If my involvement is truly so significant, then lay everything bare before me. I refuse to remain in the dark while you prattle on about your so-called adventures.”
“Not really a patient person, are you?” the rebel sighed. “You have much to learn, child, and my story might help you with that.”
“What can a sullied bastard like you teach me?” she scoffed.
“Do not dismiss us sullied, child. You can learn much from a sullied than those bumbling fools in the capital. I broke through your system, didn’t I? You will get your truth, but you must be patient. Five days is all I need and after that you will get everything, and I get to do what I want.”
“And what is it you want?” She asked.
“Redemption. I want to redeem myself and face the consequences of my actions.”
“I find it hard to believe that a man like you could ever feel guilt.”
The rebel chuckled wryly. “I see you’ve painted a monster out of me. And perhaps, in some ways, I have become one. But Lady Shatrughna, aren’t you curious about the path that led me down this perilous road? In my opinion, this could be a cautionary tale, a glimpse into the depths of an evil mind and the consequences of terrible actions. Listening to it might help you prevent someone like me from arising again.”
“Is that so?” She said, her lips curling into a smirk. “Then tell me your story, and I will judge you with a fair mind. Enlighten me about the choices that pushed you towards the defiance and rebellion.”
“Well,” he began, clearing his throat. “It would be appropriate to begin with my earliest memories, right when I was a te-“
“No,” Arshia interrupted. “Start from that incident, when you became an Asura.”
"If you want the truth, write my whole story," he said, his tone sharp. "Otherwise, bring in your wise men and their torturers. They won’t get a thing out of me, and they know it."
“Have it your way. I will act as the biographer, and you, the pious, misunderstood noble revolutionary.” Arshia said.
“As expected of First Sword,” he said, smiling proudly.
Arishia dipped the pen in the ink, her hand outstretched over the paper, ready to transcribe his tale. Her impatient gaze lingered on him as he took a moment to contemplate.
“Begin,” she said, impatiently.
“My most vivid memories began when I was a wee lad of fourteen,” he started. “My family—just five of us—struggled to make ends meet. Yet...” He paused, then continued with palpable bitterness. “Life was good, and I was a better person.”
“Were you pious back then?”
“No,”
“What about your family?”
“Oh, they were pious,” he continued, his voice wry. “My father was more pious than my mother, but she understood our place in the world. The only thing she ever complained about was not being able to divorce her worthless husband, who gave her nothing but misery.”
Indra stared into her eyes with a wry smile. “I love the cunning manner in which you people embedded these regressive beliefs within us. A clever way to hinder our progress and prevent us from growing.”
“It is you people who could not evolve, and we, as civilized individuals, tolerated your beastly nature.”
“Go listen to the priests preaching in the sullied districts, girl. You’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
The rebel shook his head. “Arguing with you is like trying to rain on a stubborn buffalo.”
Arshia frowned at that, and the rebel cleared his throat. "Where was I? Ah, yes. I had two younger sisters, abandoned on our doorstep by a sullied prostitute, much to my mother's dismay. If they'd been born to the women of Vesyavarna, they'd have been taken in and trained to lose their virtue to their superiors every night. But sullied men aren’t allowed to lie with those women, so they turned to sullied prostitutes—desperate women who sold their bodies to survive."
“You ever sold your body? There are rumors that you did,” she said, her lips curling into mock amusement.
“I did what I had to do to survive. They are not what I would call fond memories,” he said, letting out a mirthless laugh.
“There are only a few moments in my life I would call fond. My life has been a perpetual tragedy—sometimes due to my own mistakes, but more often because the world threw its worst my way.”
He halted and stared at her with a pensive gaze. “I wish I could go back to the peaceful days of my childhood when my father taught me his creed, and my mother sang soothing lullabies to help me sleep. Though I did not care for my father, my mother was an angel—she went hungry just to make sure I didn’t starve.”
“Very tragic, please continue.”
“It was not a good life, but at least it was peaceful, and we were whole.”
“What happened to your family?”
“What happens to those who defy their masters?” he asked, and then answered his own question. “Execution.”
“That was one of the darkest times in my life. But before I share it with you, you need to understand the essence of who I am. Before I aspired to become a mantravid, and before I led the bloodiest rebellion as an Asura, I dreamt of being a singer,”
He went on, his pensive gaze unwavering. “It was a foolish ambition for someone of my standing. People with tainted blood like mine were never allowed such pursuits; a voice to rival any minstrel held little value. Still, I had a voice, and though I couldn't make a living from it, I was determined to follow my passion. So, let’s start there—with the incident that made me realize my first dream.”
