The streets were almost empty at that hour. Midnight air hung heavy, carrying the smell of diesel and stale rainwater. Aarav followed Agnivesh through the back lanes of the city, sketchbook clutched under his arm like a cursed inheritance.
"Where are we going?" Aarav muttered.
"To a place where your questions will find answers," Agnivesh said without looking back.
They reached an abandoned cinema hall, shutters rusted, posters peeling off the walls. A rat skittered past as Agnivesh pushed the door open.
Inside, the smell of damp concrete hit Aarav's nose. The ticket counter was broken, the floor littered with old bottles. It looked like nothing more than a ruin.
Until Agnivesh tapped his staff twice against the ground.
The air rippled. The cinema's shabby walls shimmered, then dissolved like chalk in rain. In their place stood a vast hall — pillars carved with symbols that glowed faintly, a ceiling painted with constellations that moved slowly, like the night sky itself.
Aarav stumbled back. "What the—"
"They call it maya," Agnivesh said. "Illusion. To mortals, this is just another ruin. To us, it is a refuge."
Figures emerged from the shadows. Not gods, not sages — just ordinary people. A woman in a delivery uniform, wiping sweat from her brow. A young man with thick glasses, carrying a laptop bag. An older tailor with measuring tape draped around his neck.
And yet… none of them looked ordinary. Their eyes carried the same weight Aarav had seen in the mirror after his dream — the weight of remembering.
"This," Agnivesh said, gesturing, "is the Sabha. Those who awaken are gathered here."
Aarav's throat tightened. "You mean—these people… are like me?"
The delivery woman stepped forward. Her voice was low, steady. "We've all lived before. We've all fought before. And now, we fight again."
The man with glasses added, "The world thinks the war ended in stories. It didn't. It just went underground."
Aarav looked around, heart pounding. Dozens of them, all wearing the masks of ordinary lives, all carrying secrets that burned through their skin.
He wanted to run. To deny it again. To shout that he was just a failed artist, not some reincarnated warrior.
But then the tailor raised a hand, palm scarred with a mark that glowed faintly. Aarav recognized it. He had drawn that same mark years ago, without knowing what it was.
"You're late, Arindya," the tailor said gently, almost like a father. "We've been waiting for you."
The hall fell silent. Every pair of eyes turned toward him.
Aarav's mouth went dry. His name wasn't Aarav here. Not anymore.