Ashes of Dharma

Far from Asthimat Nagar, atop a floating plateau bathed in golden light, stood the Suvarna Mandira—the Temple of Gold.

It wasn't built. It was grown—from mantras, from centuries of devotion, from the bones of old beliefs. Its walls pulsed with prayers that never stopped. Every breath inside was a hymn. Every shadow was watched.

And at its heart, Vaikuntharaja sat on his throne, surrounded by priests, watchers, and whispering gods made of thought and fire.

The room shook.

Ashes fell from the ceiling.

The god opened one of his thousand mouths and asked, "Who doubts me?"

A trembling priest stepped forward. "My Lord… the people of the Bone City… they no longer kneel."

Silence fell.

Then, laughter.

Not rage.

Amusement.

"Let them stand," Vaikuntharaja said. "They will beg to kneel soon enough."

Beneath the temple, in chambers unseen by mortal eyes, something darker stirred.

An ancient prisoner, bound in chains of gold and silence, opened her eyes for the first time in a thousand years.

She had once been called Matrika—Mother of Flame. A yogini of the old world. A goddess before gods became brands.

She smiled.

"The fire has returned to the earth," she whispered. "And the boy carries the match."

The chains trembled.

The gods did not notice.

But the old powers did.