The rain had quietened sometime before dawn, but Mumbai never really slept. It hummed like a restless beast outside the cracked window of Aranya's cramped apartment, its glow and grime seeping into every crevice. Neon signs blinked in tired rhythms outside, casting red and blue reflections over the floor tiles that had seen better years. Inside, all was still.
Veyne sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his back a jagged canvas of old wounds and fresh scars. The towel on his head had long since dried, his jet-black hair falling in damp locks over his brow. The mirror across the room – small, scratched, nailed to a cupboard door with rusted hinges – showed a man who looked like a ghost of another age.
But he was no ghost. He was too solid. Too angry.
"Are you always up this early?" Aranya's voice came from behind, groggy, wrapped in the cocoon of sleep and cotton blankets. She'd fallen asleep on the mattress near the bookshelves, surrounded by half-opened notebooks, uncapped pens, and empty coffee mugs.
Veyne didn't turn. He was staring at himself.
"I don't sleep much," he said simply.
Aranya sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I noticed. You paced half the night. My upstairs aunty must think I adopted a bodybuilder with insomnia."
He glanced over his shoulder finally, and the barest trace of a smirk tugged at his lips. "What is a 'bodybuilder'?"
"Nothing. Forget it," she waved him off, standing up and stretching. She yawned, scratched her head, and shuffled over to the electric kettle on the counter. "Want chai?"
"I don't drink… chai," he said, as if the word itself was suspicious.
"Traitor," she muttered, filling two mugs anyway.
They sat on opposite ends of the bed. The morning sun was filtering through the grilled balcony, catching the dust in golden slants. It should've felt peaceful. It didn't.
"What are you looking for?" Aranya asked finally, sipping her tea. "You stare at yourself like you're hoping the mirror will lie."
Veyne was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "There's a face I used to wear. A name I used to answer to. In Atlantis, I was Veyne Alaric, Highborn, Heir of the Crown. But this man..." —he pointed to the mirror— "I don't know him."
"Why?" she asked softly.
"Because he didn't survive the Night of Seven Flames. That boy—" He paused, breathing in slowly, "—was betrayed, broken, and burned. This… this is just what rose from the ash."
Aranya sat silently. Her fingers curled tighter around the warm ceramic of her cup. "You still remember everything, don't you?"
"I remember the scent of the hall," he said, eyes distant. "The sound of the Crown shattering. Daemon's voice. Elias's blade. Seraya's tears. Kael's silence. I remember all of it."
Aranya swallowed. "Why haven't you asked about your world? About Atlantis? The Factions? The ones who survived?"
Veyne turned to her fully now. His eyes were different—clearer, sharper, like the fog from the first two days had finally lifted.
"Because I needed to see if I still existed," he said. "Before I go hunting ghosts, I had to make sure I wasn't one."
Aranya didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached under her mattress and pulled out a folder. She tossed it to him. Veyne caught it mid-air.
"What's this?"
"A thesis I never submitted," she said. "It's about the Lost Cities—mythical civilizations, folk memory, oral traditions. Atlantis was just one chapter. There are references, illustrations, and timelines. But some of the drawings… they match your scars. The symbols, especially."
Veyne flipped through the pages, his face unreadable.
"Why would you dream of me?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I saw you before I ever met you. Always the same—falling from the tower, wrapped in fire, reaching for a broken crown. I thought I was going crazy."
"You're not," he said. "We're just… connected. Maybe the Crown of Desire works that way. Or maybe Fate's just playing games."
She looked up sharply. "The Crown of Desire. You said you found it. Karan Dev—he knew you, didn't he?"
Veyne nodded, closing the folder. "He was a vessel, not a leader. The Saffron Hand were only a mouthpiece for something older. Something I used to command."
"What did you see in the Mirror Trial?" she asked.
He didn't answer at first. Then, softly, "My own death. Again and again. Each time, a different face delivering the blow."
Aranya's throat tightened. "Daemon. Seraya. Kael. Elias."
He looked up, voice hardening. "I will find each one. And I will show them what rose from their betrayal."
Silence fell again. The city outside was waking up now – honking cars, street vendors shouting for breakfast customers, rickshaw engines coughing into life. It all felt... wrong against the weight of the conversation.
Aranya took a breath. "Then we need to prepare. The next faction isn't going to show itself easily. Desire revealed itself through obsession and illusion. What comes next?"
Veyne stood, walking to the window. He pulled aside the curtain and looked down at the street below.
"There were Seven. Each one ruled from the shadows. Each one twisted a different part of the human soul. After Desire comes... Order."
Aranya blinked. "Like discipline?"
"No. Not like discipline. Like control. Structure. Balance. It sounds noble. But behind its mask, Order hides tyranny. Rigidity. Suppression. They believe in hierarchy. In law, above loyalty. They were the ones who legitimised the betrayal."
She frowned. "And where do you think they are now?"
Veyne turned to her, eyes cold. "Where power gathers. Where rules are made. In this world... I think they're inside the systems. Bureaucracy. Intelligence. Military. Perhaps even your... government."
Aranya let that settle in.
"So, what do we do?" she asked. "You walk into Parliament and demand your throne?"
Veyne smiled. For the first time since waking in her world, it was real.
"No," he said. "I'm going to start small. Influence must be earned. Fear must be planted. Order won't show itself until something disturbs its pattern."
"And you'll be the disturbance?"
"I'll be the ash in their lungs," he said.
The kettle whistled again, forgotten earlier. Aranya got up and poured herself another cup. "You're gonna need new clothes," she muttered. "And a new name. You can't go around looking like a myth and sounding like a prophecy."
Veyne raised an eyebrow. "Then what do I call myself?"
She smirked. "Something low-key. Something unassuming. How about... 'Vikram'? It's common enough."
"Vikram," he repeated. "It'll do. For now."
They stood side by side, the morning light rising behind them.
Outside, the city stirred. But inside that tiny flat in Andheri East, a war was beginning—quietly, patiently, burning beneath the skin of a man who had once worn a crown of flame.
Later that day, Vikram—no, Veyne—walked the streets of Mumbai like he had never seen a city before. And in many ways, he hadn't.
The steel giants that towered into the smog-choked sky, the rivers of honking rickshaws and cursing delivery boys, the endless lanes that smelled like a mix of paani puri, diesel, and damp socks—it was overwhelming. In Atlantis, everything had symmetry, sacred geometry. Valgard Spire rose from the centre of the capital like a sword through the clouds. Here? Chaos reigned.
But Veyne knew better. Chaos was a mask. Order wore it well.
"This way," Aranya said, tugging his wrist as they crossed the busy road near Churchgate station. "You're going to get flattened if you just stand like a statue in the middle of the street."
"I was observing the flow," he replied.
"This isn't Atlantis," she muttered. "You can't observe traffic. You run."
They ducked into a dingy alley behind a row of bookstores and passed a chai stall that smelled like heaven and heartburn.
"You said Order hides in the system," she said, keeping her voice low. "I know a place that might help us find a thread."
"Thread?"
"Yeah," she said. "Every web starts with one."
They arrived at a peeling green door at the back of a building that looked abandoned. She knocked four times—two short, one long, one short.
After a pause, a metal slot slid open, revealing a pair of eyes behind thick glasses.
"Password," said the voice.
Aranya smiled sweetly. "You still believe in that nonsense?"
The eyes squinted. "Aranya?"
"Hi, Parvez."
The door swung open. Inside was a cavern of chaos—walls lined with servers humming low, wires hanging like digital vines, desks covered with laptops, modems, and old Nokia phones. A couple of guys in hoodies were arguing in front of a massive whiteboard filled with names, numbers, and acronyms.
Veyne looked around slowly. "What is this place?"
"Information," Aranya said. "The kind no one wants you to have."
Parvez stepped out from behind the servers. Mid-thirties, had a nerd beard, and was wearing a Rolling Stones tee. "Who's the tall and brooding?"
"Research assistant," Aranya said before Veyne could speak. "Doesn't talk much. Paid in crypto."
"Hmm," Parvez said. "Tall, quiet, mysterious. So your type hasn't changed."
"Shut up," she replied, rolling her eyes.
Parvez waved them to a corner table. "What do you need?"
"I need everything you can find on a group called 'The Council of Order, '" Aranya said.
Parvez blinked. "What is this, a Dungeons & Dragons session?"
"I'm serious."
He frowned. "That's not a name we've run into, but give me a minute." He turned to his keyboard, fingers flying like he was born with them.
Veyne watched silently, leaning close to Aranya.
"This man… can he be trusted?"
She nodded. "Parvez is a paranoid genius. He's been running this info hub for ten years. Got doxxed once by a troll army and still survived."
"I don't know what most of those words mean," Veyne replied.
Parvez clicked through some files, then paused. "Huh."
"What?" Aranya leaned in.
"I didn't find 'Council of Order' directly. But there's something called the Sentinel Program—old government think-tank, officially disbanded, unofficially very active. Connected to urban surveillance, policy engineering, and population behaviour modelling. Mostly quiet. Operates through proxies—NGOs, corporate firms, even media."
"Sounds like a shell faction," Aranya said.
Veyne stepped forward. "Do they operate independently?"
Parvez squinted. "Not really. They funnel everything to a parent org, 'Sanraksha Foundation. ' It's private, but old. Real old. There's not much on them."
"Where is it based?" Veyne asked.
"Mumbai," Parvez said. "Which is weird, considering most of its clients are international. But here's the kicker—every big data initiative in the city, from Aadhaar cross-referencing to facial recognition, passes through a cloud cluster rented under their name."
Veyne's fists clenched slowly.
"That's where they hide," he said. "Beneath names, systems, numbers. Order doesn't need faces. It needs compliance."
Parvez looked between them, clearly confused now. "What's going on?"
"You ever heard of the Seven Hidden Factions?" Aranya asked him.
"No. Should I have?"
"They're real," she said. "And they're waking up again."
Parvez sat back, chewing on that. "Right. Okay. I'm gonna pretend this is a passion project and not some conspiracy rabbit hole."
"Can you get us access to Sanraksha's inner architecture?" she asked.
He whistled. "That's like asking if I can hack a dragon."
She stared at him.
He sighed. "Give me a few days. I'll do what I can. No promises."
"Thanks, Parvez."
"Yeah, yeah. But you owe me chicken biryani and lifetime access to your brain."
Aranya smirked. "Deal."
They stepped out into the daylight again, the heat now heavy on their backs.
"What now?" she asked.
Veyne was silent for a moment, eyes scanning the skyline. Then he said, "We create noise. Order fears unpredictability. We rattle their walls. If they believe I'm just a ghost, they'll ignore me. But if they sense Ashen influence…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
"You have a plan?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "We start with a symbol. Atlantis had many, but one of them belonged to me alone—the Phoenix Writ."
Aranya frowned. "What's that?"
"A mark of vengeance. In Atlantis, it meant someone had invoked their right to retribution under sacred law. It hasn't been seen in centuries."
She blinked. "You want to… tag the city?"
"I want to remind them," he said. "That fire is coming."
That night, across the underpasses and train stations of Mumbai, in alleys forgotten by both gods and governments, a strange mark began to appear—painted in black and crimson.
A bird with wings unfurled, its tail curled in smoke, its eyes open and burning.
The Phoenix Writ.
Old eyes widened. Some whispered. Some remembered.
And deep inside a cold, glass tower on Marine Drive, a woman in a grey suit stared at a surveillance screen. Her lips curled ever so slightly.
She tapped a file open on her screen. The label read:
PHOENIX PROTOCOL — RED THREAT LEVEL
Status: AWAKENED
Subject: Alaric, Veyne
Directive: Observe. Do Not Engage.
Order must not fall.
She picked up the phone.
"Activate the Watchers," she said.
By the next morning, Mumbai had started talking.
The Phoenix Writ had gone viral. First on Instagram reels by graffitists claiming it as the new underground trend. Then on Twitter (or X now, as they called it), where conspiracy nuts and ex-journalists were arguing whether it was a cult, protest, or just an art prank gone wild. One local news channel even sent a van to cover it at Andheri station.
But for those who knew the old tales—the real ones—it was no joke.
In an air-conditioned office on the 72nd floor of Gauri Tower, a boardroom of carefully dressed men and women stared at the crimson phoenix painted on their screens. A man in a three-piece suit adjusted his tie and looked at the woman at the head of the table.
Her name was Nalini Varma. CEO of Sanraksha Foundation, former intelligence handler, and current strategist of the unseen war.
And a member of the Council of Order.
"What's the protocol?" one of them asked.
Nalini tapped her fingernails on the table. "We don't act yet. This is bait. He's trying to force our hand."
"Who is he?" another one asked. "We don't even know if it's Veyne Alaric. That name belongs in myth."
"I saw him once," she said softly. "Years ago. In the Red Archives. The face on the wall—the one from the Fall of Valgard. That face… is back."
Silence fell. The room wasn't used to fear. But Nalini's voice made it real.
"Then what's the plan?" the tie-man asked.
"We watch. We listen. We adapt. Veyne was powerful in Atlantis, yes—but this is our world now. Our city. Our networks. We control the rhythm."
A junior officer entered the room mid-sentence, nervous and sweaty.
"Ma'am," he said, "You asked for a full sweep of traffic logs, digital blips, and irregularities? We found something."
He passed her a tablet. Nalini studied it for five seconds.
Then she stood up.
"Deploy Watcher Cell Seven to Dharavi. We've got a resonance spike near a cultural research unit in Matunga. That's where he is."
Meanwhile, at a roadside Irani café in Matunga, Aranya stirred her chai absently. Across from her, Veyne sat with his back to the wall, hood up. The Writ had shaken the web.
"Do you feel it?" she asked.
"I do," he said. "Something's moving. Order's gears are shifting."
She tapped her phone. "The Watchers you mentioned. What are they?"
"Human vessels. Designed to host fragments of Influence without succumbing to it. Created during the Second Age to police the other Factions. Their minds are broken, but their loyalty is pure."
"Broken how?"
"Imagine living with a voice in your head that isn't yours… whispering control, always watching, always commanding."
She shivered. "And these Watchers… how many?"
"Seven known units. More, if Order's evolved since Atlantis fell."
Suddenly, the air changed.
Not the wind—the feel. That sixth sense that crawled under the skin. Veyne looked up sharply. Across the street, a man in a courier's uniform stood motionless, holding an untouched bottle of water.
Another one leaned against a lamppost, pretending to scroll his phone.
"They've found us," Veyne muttered.
Aranya's eyes widened. "Already?!"
"Stay behind me."
Before she could argue, Veyne stood and walked calmly out of the café.
The street paused.
The courier looked up. The lamppost guy slid his phone into his pocket. They were coordinated—too coordinated. Civilians nearby were slowly backing away, instinctively.
"State your Directive," Veyne said aloud.
The courier stepped forward. "Watcher Seven, Division Theta. You are designated Ashen Anomaly. Relinquish control. Submit to system restoration."
"Still speaking in scripts, I see," Veyne said, eyes glowing faintly.
"I repeat," the Watcher said, "Relinquish control. Submit to—"
Veyne raised his hand.
The wind shifted—sharply.
From the shadows beneath his feet, embers rose. Not hot, not burning—but furious. His fingers curled slightly. With it, the Watcher's left eye flickered.
Then twitched.
Then bled.
The man screamed—a hollow, distorted sound—and fell to his knees.
"Your code is outdated," Veyne said coldly. "Your mind is borrowed. Let me return it."
He stepped forward, palm open. Fire didn't come. Not this time.
Instead, memory did.
He touched the Watcher's temple, and for one brief second, they were both there—in a void of echoes and thunder. A white tower crumbling. A map burning. A woman screaming in a language lost to time.
The Watcher's mind shattered under the pressure.
When Veyne let go, the man collapsed into unconsciousness.
The others didn't attack.
They retreated.
Fast.
Aranya ran to him, heart thudding.
"Veyne… what was that?! You didn't burn him—you… rewrote him!"
"It's a fragment of the Ashen Crown," he said. "Desire teaches more than domination. It teaches seduction. Influence. Control over what others believe is real."
She looked at the collapsed Watcher. "Did you just… unmake him?"
"I freed him," Veyne said softly. "From a prison made of obedience."
Back inside Sanraksha's tower, Nalini watched the footage.
She didn't blink.
"So," she said. "He's not a myth after all."
"What now?" her assistant asked.
"Send the Deacon."
"Ma'am?"
"The one who remembers Atlantis. The one we trained to kill ghosts. It's time he met his king."
The assistant paused, then nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
As he left, Nalini turned to the city skyline.
"If Veyne wants fire," she whispered, "we'll give him ash."