The storm didn’t howl.

  It whispered.

  Low, like voices through broken reeds. It spoke not to the ears, but to the bones — an aching chill that warned of something far older than the wind.

  At dawn, a mist rolled over the eastern forests, thick as smoke. Garudasthala’s outer sentries reported shapes shifting within it. Not beasts. Not men. Something between. Things that moved too silently, too smoothly.

  Surya stood over a war map in the command tent. He traced the line of the Blackroot marshes with one finger.

  “Tonight, we move.”

  Dharan raised an eyebrow. “Into that fog? We risk walking blind into a trap.”

  Surya nodded. “That’s exactly what they want us to think. Which is why we won’t approach from the trail.”

  He gestured to a lesser-known path skirting the ridge. “We take the cliffside ascent. Come down from behind. If they’re hiding near the ruins, we’ll catch them in their den.”

  Murmurs of agreement followed.

  “Only the elite. No more than five,” Surya said. “Speed and silence will decide this.”

  By twilight, the party was assembled. Dharan. Varun the Silent. Meera of the Twin Blades. Rudra’s own student, Pratap. And Surya at the lead.

  They vanished into the trees as the last rays of sunlight bled away.

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  The fog thickened as they climbed.

  Birdsong ceased. Branches drooped like grieving arms. Even the wind held its breath.

  Meera whispered, “I’ve never seen the forest this quiet.”

  Surya didn’t answer. His eyes were glowing faintly — Astral Perception active, scanning the unseen. Runes shimmered on his arms. Every instinct screamed that they were being watched.

  Then came the scent — copper and rot.

  Pratap gagged, clutching his nose. “Something died here. Recently.”

  They emerged on a ridge overlooking the scorched circle.

  It had changed.

  The stones now formed a spiral. At its center, a corpse burned in blue flame — unmoving, yet unconsumed. Chanting drifted from the edges of the mist. Not loud. Not urgent. Just constant. Like breathing.

  Surya raised a hand.

  “On my mark.”

  He drew his blade — a single curved edge that caught the dying light. The others readied.

  Three. Two—

  A shriek split the fog.

  Something lunged from the mist — tall, jointed wrong, armored in bone. It crashed into Meera, but she rolled with the impact, slicing upward. The creature screamed — not in pain, but in anger.

  More came.

  The fight exploded.

  Rudra’s student spun his spear, holding the left flank. Dharan bellowed commands. Meera was a blur. Varun moved like a wraith.

  And Surya —

  He stepped into the spiral.

  The ground throbbed beneath his feet. Battle Instinct roared alive.

  From the mist, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked in crimson. Face masked in gold. A voice echoed from behind the veil.

  “Prince of Suryavarta... the blood of kings always draws the dark.”

  Surya didn’t blink.

  He stepped forward, blade raised. “Then come bleed for me.”

  He called upon his strength — Asura’s Strength surging through muscle and bone.

  The figure raised both hands, muttering alien syllables.

  Surya’s blade ignited.

  “Vajra Jwala!”

  A streak of lightning-fire erupted from the blade, carving through the mist. The robed figure deflected it with a curved dagger, hissing as the ground cracked beneath them.

  Then everything moved at once.

  Blades. Flame. Screams. Laughter. The forest trembled.

  But as Surya fought, he realized —

  This was not the real enemy.

  This was a ritual.

  A summoning.

  And they were already too late to stop it.