The ruins of the Black Citadel still smoldered behind them, the last remnants of Rudrakaal's fortress collapsing into itself. The sky above was painted in hues of deep purple and burning orange, the sun's first light stretching over the mountains. But there was no warmth in its glow.
Anant stood at the edge of the ruined battlefield, watching the thick columns of smoke rise like spirits into the sky. His body ached—every muscle, every bone—but exhaustion was the least of his worries.
He turned to the villagers behind him.
They were free.
Yet they did not celebrate.
Their faces were pale, hollow, their clothes tattered and torn. Some clung to each other in silent grief, others simply stood still, as if unsure whether to believe they had truly escaped. Among them, a woman sobbed as she held the frail body of a boy no older than six, rocking him gently as if she could will him back to life.
Anant clenched his fists. The victory felt empty.
A small hand tugged at his. He looked down to see a child staring up at him, his face smudged with dirt but his eyes wide with something Anant hadn't expected.
Hope.
"We can go home now?" the boy asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Anant swallowed. His throat was dry, his chest tight.
"Yes," he said. "We're going home."
---
The journey home was slow. Many of the freed villagers were too weak to walk on their own. Anant and Surya took turns carrying the injured, pausing only when absolutely necessary.
They passed through the mountain forests, the cold wind biting at their skin. The trees, once ominous and watching, now felt like silent guardians.
No one spoke much.
What was there to say?
They had survived, yes. But at what cost?
By the time they reached the village, dawn had fully broken, casting a warm golden light over the familiar rooftops and narrow dirt paths. The village looked the same—but nothing felt the same.
Then—
A single scream.
A woman dropped the bundle of firewood she had been carrying, staring in disbelief at the approaching figures.
And then—chaos.
People ran from their homes, searching, calling, falling into desperate embraces. A man wept into his wife's shoulder. A mother collapsed as she counted the survivors—her daughter was not among them.
Tears. Laughter. Grief. Relief.
Emotions clashed, raw and uncontrollable.
Anant stood at the edge of it all, the weight of it pressing down on him like a mountain. He should have felt relief.
But all he felt was unease.
Surya approached, rolling his shoulders. His sword was still strapped to his back, as if he, too, did not believe the fight was truly over.
"You're not celebrating," he said.
Anant exhaled. "Something's wrong."
Surya studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Let them believe it's over. Even if it isn't."
Anant wanted to. But deep inside, he already knew the truth.
This was not the end.
---
That night, Anant collapsed onto a cot in the village elder's home. He had not eaten. He had not spoken. He barely remembered walking inside.
Sleep took him instantly.
But peace did not follow.
Darkness. Endless. Suffocating.
And then—a voice.
"You think you have won?"
The air in Anant's lungs turned to ice.
A pair of golden eyes emerged from the abyss, their glow searing into him like fire.
Rudrakaal.
His form was fractured, barely holding shape, but the power in his presence was unmistakable.
"You are not my destroyer, Anant." The voice slithered through the void. "You are my vessel."
Anant struggled to move, to summon his strength, but his limbs felt heavy, useless. His pendant—the source of his power—burned against his chest.
"The light you wield is borrowed," Rudrakaal whispered. "And light… fades."
Pain exploded in Anant's chest. He gasped, clutching the pendant, but the golden glow was flickering, weakening.
No.
No, no, no.
He wouldn't let it.
Anant fought back, forcing every ounce of resistance into his being, pushing against the darkness. Light flared from his pendant, a single brilliant pulse—
And then—he woke up.
His breath came in short gasps, sweat soaking through his tunic. He sat up, heart hammering against his ribs.
Something wasn't right.
He turned his head.
And froze.
A shadow stood in the corner of the room.
Watching.
Waiting.
Anant's fingers tightened around his staff. He blinked—
And it was gone.
---
The next morning, Anant wasted no time.
He pulled Surya and the village elder into the temple, away from listening ears.
"You think Rudrakaal still exists?" the elder asked, his voice uneasy.
Anant hesitated. "Not in the way he did before. But his influence… it's still here. He's still watching."
Surya exhaled sharply. "Then we don't wait for him to strike. We hunt him down first."
Anant wished it were that simple.
But then—a scream.
Shouts erupted from outside.
Anant and Surya bolted out the door, their hands flying to their weapons.
Villagers were gathered near the outskirts, whispering in fear.
And at the center of their circle was a symbol—burned into the earth.
A sigil, dark and pulsing with an unholy energy.
Anant stared at it, his stomach twisting.
He had seen this before.
In his dream.
His pulse thundered in his ears. The air around the sigil hummed, charged with something ancient, something wrong.
One of the villagers turned to Anant, his voice shaking. "What does it mean?"
Anant's jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists.
"It means we were never safe."
Surya exchanged a grim look with him. "Then we need to be ready."
Anant didn't respond.
He just kept staring at the sigil, at the mark of the enemy he had not truly defeated.
The peace they had fought for was already crumbling.
And the real war had only just begun.
---