They called it Shraddhalok — The Realm of Pure Devotion.
A city of endless light, polished marble, floating banners that never tore. Streets paved with hymn-stone. Sky always golden. And not a single shadow.
At first glance, it was paradise.
Then Aarav looked closer.
The people smiled — but their eyes were empty. Their spines hunched slightly, as if constantly bowing even when standing. They whispered mantras without pause, lips moving in sleep, in meals, even during mourning.
No one questioned.
No one asked why.
Because to question was to betray. And betrayal meant disappearance.
Aarav walked into the city, cloaked in stillness. His steps didn't echo — not because of silence, but because Shraddhalok did not acknowledge outsiders.
But he was not here to fight.
He was here to see.
He sat in the central plaza where the statues of the "True Gods" stood — Vaikuntharaja at the center, his thousand arms outstretched, each holding symbols of obedience: chains, scriptures, sacrifice bowls.
A child sat beside him.
She was crying. Quietly. Alone.
He asked her, "Why do you cry?"
She whispered, "Because I don't believe anymore… and now I'm afraid."
Aarav didn't tell her not to be afraid.
He just sat beside her. Breathed.
And slowly, her breath matched his.
The air shifted. Just slightly.
And the statue of Vaikuntharaja cracked — a hairline fracture across one palm.
No one noticed.
But the wind did.