Somewhere between the bite of fear and the shock of impossible descent, Arjun finally let himself feel it all—adrenaline, terror, awe. He tumbled through colorless light that flickered with scenes not quite his own: a boy holding a serpent's scale, a city drowning in rainbows and shadows, hands reaching for him, voices ancient as stone.
Beside him, Ishani twisted in freefall. "Keep your eyes open!" she shouted, voice warping in the rush. "Don't let the market memory steal your mind!"
A flash of blue veered across his vision, and then they landed—hard—side by side atop slick mosaic tiles. All around, glass walls shimmered, holding back visions of Suryanagar's past and future: colonial soldiers scattering prayers before burning temples; children trading relics in a market teeming with gold and sorrow; glittering signs crying for new gods.
Air shook. The room—if it was a room at all—trembled, shaped by memory more than matter. From above, sounds dripped—the market's drone, the clash of myth-binders, sirens muffled through the dream-glass.
Arjun sat up, groaning, dazed by the collision of worlds inside his skull. "Are we…dead?"
"No," Ishani gasped, brushing glass dust off her hair. "We fell through a mnemonic fold. A market defense—sends intruders to the places they most fear."
He stared, chest still pounding. "And what do you fear?"
She gave a hard, lopsided smile. "Same as you. Not ever waking up."
A far wall rippled—refracted glass resolving into a gateway of mirrored arches. Footsteps thundered from beyond, sharp and deliberate. The lion-masked myth-binder stepped through, his form flickering at the edges. Each step echoed with stories half-told.
He spoke—voice like thunder in static:
"THE THREAD RUNS THROUGH FALSE MARKETS, BLEEDING MEMORY INTO MEAT. FORGOTTEN CHILD, RETURN THE RELIC."
Arjun clutched his pocket. The chip pulsed, energy humming in a forgotten language inside his bones.
Ishani leaned close. "There's a way out," she murmured. "You have to remember—something only yours, pure, without myth or code. Anchor yourself to it."
"But what—what does that even mean?" Arjun stammered as the myth-binder advanced.
"A moment. Something no one else owns. Say it—think it—hold it, or you'll be glass like the rest!"
Arjun squeezed his eyes shut. Memories scrambled in panic: him, a boy, laying marbles in city dust, watched by a gentle grandmother; the smell of fried sweets, his own laughter echoing unfiltered by shame or fate.
"I am Arjun Rao. My first memory—Diwali in Chandi Chowk, stealing sweets from the offering plate. Naniji laughed, didn't scold. Said, 'If the gods are hungry, they can chase you themselves.'"
Light spun into darkness, then exploded in a riot of color. The market's images shattered, dropping both Ishani and Arjun onto cold, wet concrete. Air tasted like ozone and wet stone.
They'd landed, this time, in an empty maintenance tunnel beneath the city, water running in inky trickles. The relic's heat died down. Ishani gasped for air, eyes shining with something close to amazed relief.
He looked at her, hope and disbelief swelling in his voice. "Did we do it?"
"We're back in Suryanagar's bones," she said, voice trembling but strong. "And you—Arjun Rao—just faced your first myth trial. Not bad, for a city tech."
From behind, the memory of the myth-binder's roar faded—still present, but blunted by the wards of old market glass.
Ishani grinned, wild and genuine. "Let's not linger. They'll come again, and next time—memory might not be all they take."
As they hurried deeper into the city's underworld, Arjun realized that each step away from the surface was a step into legend. The city above never stopped dreaming, but here—underground, chased by stories and secrets—he saw just how thin the veil was between his world and dangers long lost to myth.
And his story, for better or worse, had only just begun.
**End of Chapter 4**