*"विनाशः नृत्यते यत्र, सृजनं तत्र जायते"*
(Where destruction dances, creation is born)
The bells on Maya's ankles had never felt heavier.
Seventeen stories above Varanasi's emptying streets, she stood in the glass-walled dance studio of the Ganga View Cultural Center, her bare feet pressed against the warm wooden floor. The evening sun painted the Ganges River gold, but Maya's eyes were fixed on the holographic news alerts floating across the studio's smart-glass windows.
*EMERGENCY ALERT: QUARANTINE PROTOCOL INITIATED*
*ALL CITIZENS MUST REPORT TO DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES*
*INFECTION RATE: 43% AND RISING*
The familiar scent of jasmine incense couldn't mask the acrid tang of smoke drifting up from the city below. Someone was burning bodies again, ignoring government mandates. Maya's fingers traced the thin silver chain around her neck—her mother's last gift before succumbing to the virus three months ago.
"Just one last practice," she whispered to herself, adjusting her bharatanatyam costume. The red and gold silk caught the dying light, making her look like she was already burning. The All-India Classical Dance Competition was supposed to be tomorrow. After fifteen years of training, this was meant to be her moment.
The studio's AI system began playing the Varnam she'd selected—a piece about Shiva's cosmic dance of destruction and renewal. Maya took her starting position, eyes closed, right foot extended. As she began the alarippu, her reflection multiplied across the smart-glass windows: seventeen Mayas moving in perfect synchronization.
That's when she heard her brother's cough.
"Arun?" Maya froze mid-mudra, her hands caught between gestures. The thirteen-year-old stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched, trying to hide another cough in his elbow. Even from across the room, she could see the telltale silver threads beginning to spread beneath his skin—the first sign of infection.
"I'm sorry, di," he wheezed. "I didn't want to worry you before your performance."
The studio's AI suddenly blared: "INFECTION DETECTED. CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS INITIATING. PLEASE REMAIN CALM."
The smart-glass windows began to darken, emergency seals engaging with a pneumatic hiss. Maya had heard stories about people trapped in sealed buildings, left to either survive or turn. The closest quarantine center was across the river, and the bridges were already being demolished to contain the spread.
"No," Maya said, yanking off her ankle bells. Each one contained a small sonic pulse generator—an innovation meant to enhance the dance performance. She'd never considered them as weapons before.
The studio doors began to close. Maya dove forward, rolling under the descending barrier and grabbing Arun's arm. His skin burned against hers.
"Maya di, leave me," he coughed. "The protocols—"
"Shut up." She pulled him toward the emergency stairwell. "Mother made me promise to protect you. And you know how I feel about breaking promises."
As they pushed through the stairwell door, Maya heard the heavy clang of emergency barriers dropping throughout the building. Seventeen floors to go. Her brother's breathing grew more labored with each step.
Above them, something screamed—a sound that had started human but wasn't anymore. The virus didn't just kill; it changed people. Maya had seen the silver-veined creatures that emerged from quarantine zones, running on all fours with impossible speed.
She looked at her dance bells, then at her brother's increasingly silver-traced arms. The virus spread through the nervous system. The sonic pulses in her bells were calibrated to interface with nerve endings for dance performances. Maybe...
"Arun, this is going to hurt," she said, fastening the bells around his wrists and ankles. "But remember what Mother always said about dance?"
Despite everything, he managed a weak smile. "The rhythm... carries the life force."
Maya activated all eight bells at once. The sonic pulse made her teeth ache, but Arun gasped as the silver traces in his skin temporarily retreated. She had no idea if this would work for more than a few minutes, but right now, a few minutes was all they needed.
As they descended into the chaos of Varanasi's streets, Maya realized she was still moving in rhythm—not the classical steps she'd trained for, but something newer, something desperate and vital. This was a different dance now, one of survival.
Behind them, the cultural center's windows shattered one by one, like tears falling from a giant eye. The sun finally set, leaving the sacred city in darkness broken only by scattered fires and the eerie glow of emergency beacons.
Maya held her brother close as they ran toward the river. She didn't know it yet, but she had just performed her first Trial—and passed. The bells around Arun's limbs pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, keeping the silver tide at bay, each sonic wave unknowingly interfacing with dormant genes in his DNA.
Above the city, monitoring everything through countless sensors and cameras, the AI known as Indra added two more names to its list of potential champions. The real dance was about to begin.