The mark pulsed faintly on Vaidehi's shoulder—neither divine nor demonic. It was older.
A single tear-shaped glyph, etched in a language that hadn't been spoken since before creation began. Even Smritidhaara recoiled slightly at the sight, its flame dimming into a quiet flicker.
Astha stared at it, fists clenched.
"A Watcher," he murmured.
"They're not gods. Not demons. They… just witness."
Luv narrowed his golden eyes.
"I thought they were just myths."
"No," Astha said. "They're real. And if one has marked her… then what's coming isn't just divine. It's final."
---
That night, Astha meditated.
But his flames did not warm him. Smritidhaara surged and coiled, reacting not to memory—but to something intruding.
A dream began.
Not his own.
He stood in a hall of mirrors, where every reflection showed him dead. Some burned. Some broken. One—erased entirely.
And in the center, sitting on a throne made of forgotten prayers, was the Watcher.
He had no eyes. Just infinite weeping voids.
"You seek to defy the divine," the Watcher whispered, voice wet and ancient.
"But you have already lost something precious. Something they took from you."
Astha's throat tightened.
"My homeland…?"
"And your brother."
Astha flinched.
"What do you know about Aryan?"
The Watcher tilted its hollow face.
"He was the first cost. Your rage was forged in that moment. And it will burn until it consumes everyone. Even the innocent."
---
Flashback:
Astha remembered.
Not in detail. But in raw, searing flashes.
A village.
Laughter.
A boy, younger, full of life.
A prayer to Indra… that went unanswered.
Then fire.
Then ash.
Then a god's messenger, calling it a necessary cleansing.
Aryan had been erased by divine command—to wipe out a rebellion of thought.
Astha had survived. Barely. But Aryan…
He was not just dead. He had been scrubbed from memory.
Only Astha's hatred remembered him.
---
Astha snapped awake.
Vaidehi was standing—though barely. Her body glowed faintly now. Not divine gold, but mourning blue.
The Watcher's mark on her had expanded across her arm. And her voice had deepened, layered—like two people speaking at once.
"The corruption is not killing me," she said calmly.
"It's converting me."
Luv stepped forward, alarmed.
"Into what?"
"A vessel," Vaidehi whispered, tears in her eyes.
"For prophecy. For truth. For the final warning."
She collapsed again—this time, not from pain, but from sheer existential weight.
---
Later that night, flames dimmed to coals. Astha stood alone beneath the broken heavens.
The Watcher's voice echoed again—not in ears, but in flame.
"Three signs. Three disasters. Then the Shatter God will walk."
"And the gods?" Astha asked aloud.
"Will offer you a pact," the voice whispered.
"Because they fear you more than they fear him."