The sparring grounds reeked of sweat and blood.
Aryan stood at the edge, watching bodies collide. Fists cracked against jaws. Feet swept legs from under practiced stances. The other disciples moved like water—flowing, striking, retreating. Their muscles knew the dance.
His knew nothing.
"Today, we test endurance." Mahajan's voice cut through the grunts and thuds. "Not skill. Not form. Simply—how long you can stand."
Seven volunteers. Seven bodies already warmed from morning drills. Aryan's limbs felt like wet clay, heavy and shapeless. The mark on his palm throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
How long can I stand?
He already knew the answer.
The Pairing
"Aryan." Mahajan's gaze found him. "With Vikram."
Of course.
Vikram's lips curled. Not quite a smile—something sharper. He rolled his shoulders, neck cracking with deliberate slowness. His eyes held that same fear from the river, but fear had curdled into something worse.
Hunger.
"Finally," Vikram breathed as Aryan stepped into the marked circle. "No scrolls to hide behind."
The other disciples formed a loose ring around them. Dev stood near the back, arms crossed—but his eyes were tracking. Calculating. The remaining volunteers watched with detached interest.
Mahajan raised his hand. "Begin."
The First Exchange
Vikram moved first.
His fist came fast—too fast. Aryan stumbled back, feet tangling. The blow caught his shoulder, spinning him half around. Pain bloomed, hot and immediate.
Move. Move.
He raised his arms. Vikram struck again—once, twice, three times. Each hit rattled Aryan's bones. His forearms screamed. His teeth clacked together hard enough to taste blood.
"Fight back!" someone shouted. Laughter followed.
Aryan tried. He swung—wide, slow, pathetic. Vikram ducked under it like sliding beneath a door. His counter drove into Aryan's ribs.
Air left. Everything left.
Aryan folded, gasping. The ground rushed up. He caught himself on hands and knees, vision swimming. Dirt pressed into his palms. The mark burned brighter.
"Get up." Mahajan's voice. Flat. Expectant.
I can't.
"Get up, Scroll-brain." Vikram circled like a predator. "I saw what you did at the river. That wasn't skill. That wasn't power." His voice dropped. "That was a curse. And everyone's going to see it."
The Whisper
Aryan pushed himself upright. His legs shook. His ribs throbbed with each breath. Somewhere behind his eyes, pressure was building—familiar, unwanted.
Not now. Please.
But the whisper came anyway.
Low. Ancient. Crawling up from his spine like smoke through cracks.
"तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय"
From darkness, lead me to light.
Vikram lunged again. Aryan's body moved—not by choice. He sidestepped. Vikram's fist whistled past his ear. For half a heartbeat, Aryan saw something strange.
Threads.
Faint silver lines connecting Vikram's joints. Wrist to elbow. Elbow to shoulder. Shoulder to spine. A puppeteer's web, invisible to everyone else.
And one thread—just one—stretched directly toward Aryan.
The Seeing
What is that?
Vikram spun, throwing an elbow. Aryan ducked—barely. The motion felt wrong. Too fluid. Not his own.
The thread between them pulsed. It hummed—a frequency Aryan felt in his molars, behind his eyes, in the spaces between his thoughts.
I'm not doing this, Aryan realized. Something is.
The mark on his palm flared. Heat shot up his arm. His vision split—one eye saw the courtyard, the other saw the web of threads overlaying everything. Every disciple, every teacher, every blade of grass—connected by gossamer strands. They sang in colors he had no names for.
And Vikram's thread was screaming.
Not literally. But Aryan could feel it. The thread connecting them vibrated with hostility, fear, and something deeper. Something old.
He's afraid of me. Genuinely afraid. And he hates himself for it.
Vikram hesitated. Just for a breath. His next swing came slower, uncertain.
"STOP MOVING!" His composure cracked. He swung wild—once, twice, three times. Each blow missed. Aryan wasn't dodging anymore. The threads were.
No—the threads were retreating.
The Breaking Point
"Enough."
Vikram grabbed Aryan's collar and slammed him down. The impact drove breath from lungs, sense from skull. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Real world rushed back—no threads, no whispers, just pain and dirt and Vikram's knuckles rising.
The punch landed.
Aryan's head snapped sideways. Something in his nose crunched. Blood filled his mouth—copper and salt. He coughed, spraying red across packed earth.
"Stay. Down."
Another hit. Another.
Aryan's arms came up. Useless. The blows hammered through his guard. Ribs. Stomach. Face again. The world became rhythm—impact, pain, impact, pain.
I'm going to die here.
Another blow. His vision flickered.
I'm going to—
Impact.
—die—
Impact.
—here.
Then—
Silence.
Not physical silence. The crowd still roared. Vikram still breathed heavy. But inside Aryan's skull, everything went quiet. The pain stopped. The fear stopped. Even his heartbeat stopped.
The whisper returned. Louder now. Clear as temple bells.
"न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे"
He is not slain when the body is slain.
Aryan reached up.
His fingers brushed Vikram's wrist.
The thread between them—that silver strand woven from every glance of contempt, every whispered insult, every fist thrown—
Chose not to exist.
Not snapped. Not cut. Not broken.
Unmade.
Aryan felt it go like a tooth pulled from his skull. There, then not. A gap where something used to be. And in that gap: silence so complete it hurt.
Vikram screamed.
The Aftermath
Vikram jerked back like he'd touched flame. His arm dropped, fingers twitching uselessly. His eyes went wide—not with anger. With terror.
"What—" He staggered backward, clutching his arm. "What did you DO?"
Aryan lay still, blood dripping from his nose, chest heaving. He stared at his own hand. The mark was darker now. Deeper. Like the skin had been burned from within.
I didn't unmake it. I just... touched it. And it chose to die rather than—
Rather than what?
Rather than let me see what it really was.
Around them, disciples muttered. Someone asked what happened. No one answered. Neel—the boy who always saved Aryan a seat at meals—took three steps backward. His face was pale.
He didn't look at Aryan.
He looked away.
Dev moved. Just one step forward, his hand drifting toward his belt. Then he stopped. Waited. His eyes were the only ones still measuring.
Mahajan stepped forward. His face was stone, but his jaw was tight. Not surprised.
Grieving.
"The trial is over." Mahajan's voice carried no emotion. "Aryan remains standing. He passes."
"But I—" Vikram raised his arm. His hand still wouldn't close properly. "He did something. I can't—my fingers won't—"
The whispers spread. Did you see? and His hand just stopped working and The scroll-brain did that?
And underneath, quieter: What is he?
Mahajan didn't respond. He only looked at Aryan, and for one heartbeat, Aryan saw something terrible in that gaze.
Not recognition.
Resignation.
He's always known, Aryan realized. And he's been waiting for this.
The Night
Aryan sat alone in the herb garden, back against the wall.
He couldn't stop shaking.
His ribs screamed every time he breathed. His nose was packed with dried blood. But that wasn't why his hands trembled.
He raised his right hand. Spread his fingers.
Curled them.
Spread them.
They still work. They still work. They still—
The mark pulsed. Once. Slow. Like something breathing.
He pressed his palm flat against the cold stone and dug his nails into the skin around the mark. Nothing happened. The darkness stayed where it was. But when he closed his eyes, he could still see the threads.
Silver lines behind his eyelids. Connecting everything. Singing in frequencies he couldn't name.
And one gap. One silence. Where Vikram's thread used to be.
What if I can't stop it?
He tried to make a fist. His fingers locked halfway. He stared at them.
What if next time, it's not a thread between me and someone who hates me?
He thought of Neel's face. Pale. Looking away.
What if next time, it's a thread between me and someone who—
"You felt it."
Aryan's head snapped up.
Vidyut stood at the garden's edge. Robes tattered. Eyes pale and knowing.
"You felt it," the old man repeated. Not a question.
Aryan's throat was too raw for words. He nodded.
Vidyut crouched beside him. His movements were slow, deliberate—like approaching a wounded animal. Or a weapon that didn't know it was loaded.
"The thread didn't break," Vidyut said. "It remembered you. And because you are what you are—it chose not to exist anymore."
Aryan's voice came out cracked. Barely a whisper. "What am I?"
Vidyut studied him for a long moment. The silence stretched.
Then:
"You're an Unmaker." The word fell like a stone into still water. "And by dawn, the Swamis will know it too."
Aryan's blood went cold.
"What happens at dawn?"
Vidyut stood. He didn't answer.
"What happens at dawn?"
The old man was already walking away. His voice drifted back, soft as a thread unraveling.
"You'd better hope I find you first."
Somewhere in the dark, a thread hummed.
Aryan heard it.
So did something else.