The scent of sandalwood hung heavy in the sanctum. Brass lamps flickered in quiet rhythm as the flames danced against pillars etched with forgotten prayers. In this sacred hall of Desire, silence was once revered.
Now, it was being reconstructed—physically and ideologically.
Veyne stood beneath the great banyan-shaped dome, where seven idols had once loomed over every ritual. Now, only three remained—the others torn down by his orders. In their place, fragments of a new symbol had begun to take shape: a twisting circle of fire around a crown of glass and stone.
"Too many gods in a city already full of masks," he had said the day he claimed the Saffron Hand. "From now on, let there be truth—even if it hurts."
Aranya sat beside him on the cold granite floor, going through half-burned scrolls and weather-worn tablets. Her fingers traced every line like a sculptor studying old clay.
"These rituals were once meant to free minds," she said softly. "But somewhere along the line, they started caging them."
Veyne glanced at her. "And now we reforge the keys."
She nodded.
The temple had become something new under Veyne. There were no more blood rites or sermons delivered in thunderous tongues. Instead, followers were taught how to observe power, manipulate perception, and wield desire as both weapon and shield.
It was working. Slowly. But it was fragile.
In the shadows behind the sanctum, a hidden door creaked open.
Inside a low-ceilinged chamber, five robed figures sat around a cracked obsidian table. Their faces were marked in saffron and ash, signifying the elders of the Hand. These were not ordinary believers. These were the keepers of secrets, the watchers of old rites.
At the head sat Elder Ramesh, his voice soft but sharp. "The Crown-bearer dismantles our foundation with smiles. He removes idols and replaces them with his name."
"He claims not to be a god," whispered Priestess Maitreyi, "but the faithful already bow to him."
"The people love him," said another. "But only as long as he performs. They loved Lord Kael once too."
Ramesh tapped the table, silencing them.
"The Ashen Crown... it returns with him. But so do our enemies. The Order watches from the smoke, and Sanrakshna has gone silent. Even Nalini—their serpent—has gone to his side."
Maitreyi leaned forward. "Then the question is simple. Is he our messiah? Or our death?"
Meanwhile, in the sanctum, Nalini entered with her usual quiet grace. She wore no robes, no jewellery. Just a pale kurta and boots caked in red dust. Simplicity made her more dangerous.
"You're rebuilding the house," she said to Veyne, her voice sharp. "But are you checking for termites?"
Veyne raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"
Nalini handed him a folded parchment. "Intercepted this during our last sweep near the northern dormitories. It's coded in Old Aekari. Took Aranya's key to crack it."
Veyne unfolded it and read aloud:
"The boy wears the Crown, but it does not wear him. Let him think he rules. Desire listens to us still. When the time comes, light the fifth lamp."
Veyne's grip tightened.
Aranya looked confused. "The fifth lamp? What does it mean?"
Nalini explained. "The Hand has an old ritual. Five lamps are lit only during the Festival of Revelations. The fifth one—Satyakaal—is never lit unless an internal purge is declared."
Veyne understood instantly.
"Someone's preparing to challenge me from inside."
Nalini nodded. "And they'll do it during the festival, which starts in three days."
That night, Veyne walked alone through the outer prayer halls, where new followers were preparing garlands and lanterns. Children ran between incense stalls. Priests, now dressed in simpler robes, guided discussions instead of delivering sermons.
But even in joy, he felt it. The undercurrent. The tension.
He could see the difference in how they looked at him. Some with awe. Others with doubt. A few with fear.
Desire had been a cult. Then a movement. Now, it was becoming something else. Something unstable.
He thought of the betrayal at Valgard. Of Elias. Of Seraya. Of Daemon standing in his guard cloak, sword gleaming with ceremonial ash. That day had taught him something bitter.
Loyalty was currency. It ran out the moment someone richer came along.
He could not afford another knife in the back.
In the morning, he called for a closed assembly.
Only the high-ranking voices of the Saffron Hand were allowed. Ramesh, Maitreyi, five others.
They entered the sanctum, curious and cold.
"I hear whispers," Veyne began. "Whispers about the Crown not being earned. About the fifth lamp. About how the fire might burn again."
No one moved.
He stepped down from the dais and faced them directly. "I will not ask for loyalty. Not today. Not ever. But I will ask for honesty."
Silence.
Ramesh stepped forward. "Then allow me, Crown-Bearer. Some of us fear what you bring. The Ashen Crown has always been a relic of chaos. Of kings who rose too fast and fell too hard. We do not question your strength, Veyne. We question your end."
Maitreyi added, "The Order is awakening. Sanrakshna has fractured. We were once a neutral force—keepers of desire, not agents of empires. You... You are making us part of your war."
Veyne took it in calmly.
"Desire is already part of this war," he said. "The only question is: will you lead it? Or watch it burn?"
Maitreyi's eyes narrowed. "And if we choose to walk away?"
"You are free," Veyne replied. "But if you conspire, light secret lamps, or poison wells in my house, I will end your line with the same grace you once offered my ancestors."
No one answered.
He bowed slightly, not out of submission—but finality.
"This temple belongs to fire now. Not to shadows."
Later that day, Nalini approached him on the rooftop garden, where vines grew wild across stone railings.
"You didn't kill them," she said.
"No."
"They'll try again."
"They will."
She studied him for a moment. "You're changing."
He looked at her. "Isn't that the point?"
Evening fell with a strange stillness over the temple grounds.
Not silence—there was too much life within Desire now for that—but a quiet tension, like everyone was waiting for something to break.
The Festival of Revelations was less than two nights away. And beneath the fragrance of incense and the chants echoing in the halls, there was a smell of something sharper—distrust.
Veyne stood by the open courtyard, where the five ceremonial lamps were being cleaned by temple apprentices. The fifth lamp—tall, brass, and blackened by time—hadn't been lit in generations. Its base was engraved with a mantra:
"Satyasya pathe panthānam — Walk only on the path of truth."
He stared at it too long, letting the past creep into him like a chill under his skin. In Atlantis, truth had been a luxury. In Mumbai, it was a weapon.
"Thinking of lighting it yourself?" came Nalini's voice from behind.
Veyne smirked. "If I wanted civil war, sure."
She walked beside him. "Then don't be surprised when someone else does. You let the elders live, and now they think you're merciful. That's just another word for weak in the world we come from."
Veyne turned. "Or it's patience. Strategy. They expose themselves if I wait long enough."
Nalini folded her arms. "Only if you can afford the time."
That was when Aranya rushed in, her dupatta flying behind her like a forgotten wing.
"Veyne… something's happened."
They found the young acolyte in the herb chamber behind the sanctum. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. His body was crumpled near the spice racks, eyes wide open, mouth frozen in a silent scream. A saffron sash was stuffed into his mouth. His hands had been tied.
On his palm, a symbol had been burned into the skin—the unlit fifth lamp.
Veyne knelt, touched the boy's forehead gently.
"He was trying to warn someone," Aranya whispered. "He was carrying this."
She handed over a small bronze token shaped like a flower. The Saffron Hand's initiation badge—except this one had been snapped in half.
Nalini scowled. "That's what trainees use when they spot traitors. Break the seal and it alerts the Temple Guard. He knew someone was plotting."
Veyne stood slowly. "And they knew he knew."
He didn't need confirmation. This was a message. To him.
You are not untouchable.
The next morning, during open court, the fifth lamp was gone.
Stolen. Removed sometime during the night from the inner sanctum, despite the added guards.
The crowd buzzed in hushed murmurs. Whispers of curses, omens, prophecies.
Only Veyne remained still.
"Someone wants to light it in secret," Nalini said behind him. "They're skipping the ritual and planning a purge on their terms."
Aranya glanced around. "But who would dare? Ramesh?"
Veyne shook his head. "Too old. Too cautious."
"Maitreyi?" Aranya asked.
"Too smart," Nalini cut in. "She wouldn't act unless she knew the people backed her."
Veyne nodded. "Which means we're missing someone. Someone younger. Someone hungry."
They didn't have to wait long.
That afternoon, smoke rose from the north tower.
By the time Veyne and Nalini reached it, a group of masked initiates—five in total—stood guard over the courtyard. In the centre, the fifth lamp had been lit.
Its flame burned blue.
The initiates stepped aside, revealing the traitor.
Taarak.
A former disciple of Karan Dev, known for his intense devotion and more intense temper. He was young, no more than thirty, but he carried the weight of his pride like armour.
Veyne stepped forward. "So, this is your coup?"
Taarak bowed mockingly. "Not a coup, Crown-bearer. A correction. You turned our house into a theatre. You stripped our gods and left glass symbols. You made mercy a law. This… is course correction."
Nalini's hand went to her belt, but Veyne stopped her.
"You could've challenged me in open court," he said.
"I did," Taarak hissed. "Every day you ignored us. Every night you replaced faith with manipulation. You call it strategy. We call it desecration."
He gestured to the flame. "The fifth lamp burns again. That means your authority is in question. We follow ancient code."
Veyne's jaw tightened.
"You think tradition gives you the right to murder children?"
Taarak didn't flinch. "He was a threat. A spy."
Veyne stepped closer. "He was a boy who believed in this temple. And now he's ash."
Taarak looked him in the eye. "Then judge me. But do it before the people."
At dusk, a crowd gathered in the outer courtyard. A makeshift trial was held, following the old rites of the Saffron Hand. The fifth lamp stood tall, burning between Veyne and Taarak.
"You were once one of us," Veyne addressed him. "Trusted. Raised by Karan Dev himself."
"And now I avenge his death," Taarak snapped. "You may have spared him in flesh, but you killed his soul. He was a guardian of tradition."
Veyne's voice rose. "Tradition gave birth to chains. Chains that kept people docile and blind. If he truly believed in freedom, he'd have welcomed this change."
The crowd murmured. Divided.
Nalini stepped forward, her tone deadly calm. "He killed a boy. A future disciple. That is not justice. That is fear."
Taarak raised his chin. "Better to act out of fear than to kneel in false hope."
Veyne looked around, his voice firm.
"I gave him mercy. I gave the elders their space. I tried to rule without becoming a tyrant. But this… this shows me the cost of mercy when it is mistaken for hesitation."
He turned back to Taarak.
"You lit the fifth lamp. Now walk the Satyakaal."
A hush fell.
Even Nalini blinked. "You're invoking the path?"
Aranya gasped. "But no one has walked it since—"
Veyne raised a hand. "If he believes he is right, he will survive the path."
The Satyakaal, or "Path of Truth," was an ancient trial. A walk across seven circles of fire, each designed to reveal the truth hidden within the soul. Only those with unwavering belief could survive it without injury.
Taarak stepped forward. "I accept."
The crowd opened a path. The fire pits were lit one by one.
Each step burned hotter. Each circle deeper.
The crowd chanted:
"Satya se hi mukti milegi.
Through truth, shall freedom come."
Taarak took the first two steps easily.
By the fourth, he was sweating. The fifth made him stagger. By the sixth, his robe had caught fire.
He screamed.
But he moved.
He reached the seventh.
Collapsed.
Alive, but broken.
The crowd went quiet. Even the wind held its breath.
Veyne stepped forward and doused the last flame with his palm.
"Truth walked through fire," he said. "But now truth lies in ash."
He turned to the temple guard.
"Take him away. Let the fire decide what remains."
That night, the fifth lamp was returned to its stand. But its flame remained unlit.
By Veyne's order.
"I'll light it again," he said quietly to Aranya, "when this house no longer needs to be afraid of truth."
She looked at him, voice trembling. "You've made enemies today."
"I know."
He turned to the sky, where the stars blinked behind Mumbai's haze.
"But I've also made a line. And from now on, they'll know not to cross it."
It began with a whisper.
A shadow seen in the reflection of temple brass.
A sigil etched in salt across the main hall threshold, invisible to the common eye but clear as blood to Aranya's gaze.
"This isn't from within," she said that morning, kneeling to trace the lines.
"This… this is Order."
Veyne knelt beside her. The marking shimmered faintly in the dawn light, shifting like smoke over still water. A triangle within a circle—the Seal of Silence.
Only three people alive should've known that sigil. And Veyne had buried two of them in Atlantis.
He looked to Nalini, who hovered near the archway, arms crossed. "This doesn't make sense," she muttered. "The Order doesn't leave signs. They erase them."
"Unless it's bait," Veyne replied, standing. "Or a warning."
She tilted her head. "You think they're here?"
He nodded. "No. I think they've always been here."
They searched the temple compound from top to bottom.
Aranya led the rites, chanting under her breath as she unlocked old Atlantean symbols hidden in the walls—none of which the Saffron Hand even knew were there. It was as if the Temple of Desire had always worn a mask, and only now had begun to take it off.
In one of the subterranean prayer chambers, they found it.
An old communication node—half-rusted, runic tech from Atlantis, built into the rock itself. It had been used recently. Faint traces of astral residue shimmered like embers in the air.
Aranya frowned. "Someone sent a message to the Orders' network. Using old Ashen protocols."
Nalini's face darkened. "But only people with access to Crown sigils could activate that."
They turned to Veyne.
His voice dropped. "That means it was meant for me."
Later that night, Karan Dev joined him in the courtyard under the banyan tree. His recovery had been slow but steady. The burn scars across his shoulder were now wrapped in fresh saffron cloth, and his eyes carried none of the fire from their first meeting—only tempered resolve.
"The Saffron Hand is watching," he said. "They may kneel, but they do not yet trust."
Veyne stared at the incense spirals dancing in the wind. "I'm not here to be trusted."
"Then what are you here for?"
Veyne looked up. "To remind them of what they forgot. That Desire is not a cage—it's a forge. The fire must hurt before it purifies."
Karan Dev smiled faintly. "You sound like the last king who sat in my place."
Veyne smirked. "He's dead. I'm what rose from him."
By midnight, another sigil appeared—this time in the sanctuary gardens.
Etched into bark, wrapped in ash.
And this one wasn't just Order.
It was combined—half Order, half Sanrakshna.
Veyne clenched his fists.
"They're working together."
Nalini's breath caught. "Impossible."
Aranya disagreed. "No. Nalini, your faction fell into silence the moment you left. You know how they work. If they can't control something, they consume it."
A silence passed between them. Nalini didn't deny it.
"They want to isolate Desire," she whispered. "Surround you. Turn your base into a prison."
Veyne stepped back. His jaw clenched.
"I've given them too much time."
The next evening, the market square inside the compound went quiet.
Three bodies were found—followers of the Saffron Hand, each one stabbed with the same weapon: an obsidian shard inscribed with Ashen runes.
It was a message.
"You are not the only one who remembers the old tongue."
The Ashen Crown's influence, once buried, was seeping into the cracks. And not all who wielded it were loyal.
Veyne stood over the bodies in silence.
Nalini looked at him. "This is escalation."
He nodded. "Good."
She blinked. "Good?"
Veyne's eyes burned low. "Because now I know they're afraid."
That night, the Council of Flame—Veyne's inner circle—gathered in the main hall.
Karan Dev. Nalini. Aranya. A few others have sworn under oath.
He looked around the circle.
"They are poking the walls. Pressuring us into paranoia. Letting the fear rot from within. We won't play that game."
"What's the move then?" Nalini asked.
"We bring the war outside," Veyne said. "Not in blood. In influence. In perception. We let them know—Desire is not bending."
Aranya stepped forward. "How?"
Veyne smiled.
"We light the fifth lamp."
Nalini's brow shot up. "You said—"
"I said not until this house no longer feared truth."
He turned.
"Now it burns with it."
The fifth lamp was lit the next morning.
The flame was tall. Blue. Pure.
And this time, it stayed.
All five ceremonial lamps burned in unison for the first time in generations. The people of the Saffron Hand stood in stunned silence.
Then someone began to chant.
Not the old mantra, but a newer one—one Aranya had unearthed from the old tongue. An ancient salutation to the Ashen Crown, forgotten by all but the deepest dreamers.
"Agnaye Namo—To the fire that remembers.
Manasa Shuddhim—To the will that purifies.
Ashaya Krantim—To the desire that does not die."
Veyne stood before them, his eyes half-closed.
The flame cast long shadows.
But in them, he saw something stirring.
A new order. His order.
The gatekeeper's drum rang three times—hollow, slow, unfamiliar.
Not the rhythm of a visitor. Not the beat of a threat. Something... in between.
Veyne rose from his seat at the inner sanctum. The air around him had grown heavy since the fifth lamp was lit. As if the Crown's flame had burned away more than fear—it had invited something.
Karan Dev stood by the marble threshold, hand on the hilt of his short blade. Nalini remained seated in the shadows, unreadable.
The sentry entered, helmet tucked under his arm.
"There's someone at the southern gate. Alone. No weapon, no guards. Just a satchel. Says he brings a message... and a gift."
Veyne didn't flinch. "From whom?"
The guard hesitated. "He claims he is... from the Order."
Nalini stood now, sharply. "That's a lie."
"No," Veyne said, his voice low. "It's a challenge."
The envoy was young—maybe twenty-three, but his posture was all wrong. Too calm. Too measured.
He wore no colour. Grey robes, frayed at the edges, hood pulled low. Bare feet. A mark on his palm glowed faintly—a triangle inside a half-moon. Ancient. Atlantean.
As he stood before the council, Veyne leaned forward.
"You have a name?"
The boy nodded. "I am called Siraaj. That is all that matters."
Veyne studied him. No fear. No arrogance. Just... presence.
"What does your Order want?"
The boy reached into his satchel, slowly, deliberately.
From it, he withdrew a small obsidian box—perfectly shaped, about the size of a human heart. Its edges pulsed with a soft azure light.
He placed it on the table.
"A reminder," he said.
Nalini's breath caught. "Is that—?"
"An Atlantean soul-shard," Aranya whispered.
"No," Siraaj corrected. "It's your memory, my king."
The box hummed when Veyne touched it.
He didn't need instruction—his fingers knew the motion.
The shard split open with a soft click, revealing a thin strand of light, like a ribbon caught in wind. It curled upward, swirling.
Then it showed the vision.
An ancient room of glass and coral. A throne made not of stone, but living sea-shell. A voice echoed—his own, but younger.
"Let the Factions rise. Let them bind the chaos. But let no one wear the Crown until they remember what it truly is—a burden, not a badge."
Another voice responded.
A tall man in gold robes. Eyes hidden behind veil-cloth.
"Then you will hide the truth?"
"No," Veyne's voice said. "I will scatter it."
"And the others?"
"They must forget. Even me."
The vision faded.
Silence blanketed the room.
Nalini looked shaken. Karan Dev looked like he'd just seen a ghost.
Veyne... closed the box and looked at Siraaj.
"Why show me this?"
The boy answered plainly. "Because your rise was never meant to be easy. It was meant to be earned."
"And what does your Order want in return?"
Siraaj's smile was faint. Not friendly. Not mocking.
"Balance. You awaken too fast. You sway too many. The Crown remembers you—but the world does not. That... is dangerous."
Veyne stepped closer, until their eyes met.
"You think a vision will frighten me?"
"No, Veyne Alaric," Siraaj said softly. "I think it will tempt you."
After the envoy left, escorted back through the gates with eyes on him the entire time, the council erupted in whispers.
Aranya remained still. Nalini circled the room like a panther. Karan Dev sipped water like it was wine—clearly disturbed.
"Why now?" Nalini asked. "Why reveal a shard like that?"
"Because he's right," Aranya replied. "You're waking up too fast."
Veyne finally spoke, quiet but clear.
"They want to slow me down. Shake the foundation. Distract the Hand with riddles while they tighten their hold on the other factions."
Karan Dev leaned forward. "What's the plan then?"
Veyne walked to the window and stared at the fifth lamp burning below.
"We push forward. The time for caution is over.
Let them know—we may not remember everything,
but we remember enough to make them bleed."
In the lower hall, as night fell, Aranya lingered by the box.
She ran her fingers along its surface, eyes glazed in thought.
There was a line carved under the base. One even Veyne hadn't noticed.
An inscription in old script.
She whispered it aloud:
"When the sea returns, the city shall rise.
And he who carries fire shall be tested by storm."
Her hand froze. Her breath stopped.
Because that line... wasn't from Atlantis.
It was from the scriptures of Dwarka.