Night had fallen over London, but Shreya remained in Study Room C, surrounded by photocopied pages and digital scans. James had left hours ago, reluctantly agreeing to give her extended access to the special collections room. The leather-bound book lay open before her, its pages seeming to absorb the harsh fluorescent light.
"This can't be right," she muttered, cross-referencing her translations. Her laptop screen showed multiple Sanskrit-English dictionary tabs, alongside emails from her old language teacher in Patna.
The book had revealed its secrets slowly, like layers of an ancient puzzle. Each translation unveiled more disturbing details about Mrit. Her phone buzzed with another message from Rohan:
"Di, the bookseller told me more about Mrit. Says the temples here have old carvings of him. Should I check them out?"
"NO!" she typed quickly. "Stay away from the temples for now. Just send me pictures of any books you find."
Her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory – a story told on a stormy night in Patna, when Shreya was twelve:
*"There are beings older than our gods, beta. Beings that sleep beneath ancient stones, dreaming dark dreams. We do not speak their names, for names have power."*
Looking at the illustration before her, Shreya finally understood her grandmother's warnings. The text described Mrit not as a mythological figure, but as something far more terrifying – a consciousness that existed before humanity, a being of pure chaos bound by ancient rituals.
"This section here," she spoke into her voice recorder, "describes Mrit as 'the darkness between stars, the hunger beneath mountains.' It says he was bound by seven sages using mantras that 'broke reality itself.'"
The next page contained diagrams of the binding ritual, showing geometric patterns that hurt her eyes if she looked at them too long. Beneath them, a warning was written in blood-red ink:
*"To speak his true name is to draw his gaze. To seek his power is to invite destruction. The binding weakens with each passing age, and when the stars align..."*
A sudden draft extinguished the desk lamp, leaving only her laptop's glow. In the darkness, the book's pages seemed to emit a faint, sickly light.
Her phone rang, making her jump. It was James.
"Shreya? You need to see this." His voice was tense. "I found Shlok's personal journal in the university archives. The last entry... it's about you."
"What? That's impossible."
"Listen: 'She will come from the east, seeking knowledge. The book will call to her, as it called to me. The cycle begins anew.' Shreya, this entry was written the day before he disappeared."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "James, the texts mention a cycle. Every thirty years, when certain stars align—"
"1985 to 2025," James interrupted. "Forty years. Shreya, whatever's happening, you need to be careful. Shlok wasn't just researching Mrit, he was—"
The call cut off abruptly. Shreya's laptop screen flickered, and for a moment, she saw something reflected in it – a shape in the darkness behind her, multiple arms reaching...
She spun around. Nothing but shadows.
Her hands shaking, she turned back to the book. The illustration of Mrit seemed different now, more alive. The demon king's eyes appeared to follow her movements, and the Sanskrit text around it had rearranged itself into new patterns.
"Show me," she whispered, not knowing why. "Show me what happened to Shlok."
The pages began to turn on their own, stopping at a section she hadn't seen before. The text here was different, written in a shaky hand she recognized from Shlok's journal:
*"The binding weakens. I can feel him reaching through time, through dreams. The temples in Patna hold the key – the original binding sites. But to prevent his return, someone must complete the ritual again. The price is high, but the alternative..."*
The rest of the page was blank, except for a series of coordinates and one final warning:
*"To know his true name is to become part of his story. There is no escape once the cycle begins. I am sorry for what I must do, and sorrier still for the one who will follow me. When you read this – and I know you will – remember: some chains are better left unbroken."*
Shreya's phone buzzed one final time. A message from an unknown number:
"The temples await. Three days until the stars align. Will you break the cycle, or continue it?"
Outside, London's sky had cleared for the first time in days, revealing a waxing moon that cast long shadows through the library windows. In those shadows, something ancient and patient watched, and waited.