Ashes of Dharma

She had no temple.

No statue.

No chants sung in her name.

But once, long ago—Matrika had been worshipped by those who did not fear the dark, who danced with fire, who breathed instead of begged.

Before the gods demanded offerings, there had been discipline.

Before blind devotion, there was direct experience.

Before Vaikuntharaja built his throne of belief, Matrika had walked the earth barefoot, teaching seekers how to burn away illusion.

Then they betrayed her.

Chained her beneath the Temple of Gold.

Buried her memory beneath prayer.

And now, she was waking.

The chains glowed golden. Mantras floated through the air like fireflies.

But Aarav's flame had rippled through the worlds—through breath, through the bones of memory. It reached her. A spark in a tomb of silence.

She whispered his name—not the one given by villagers, not the one the gods feared, but the true one written on his soul.

And the chains cracked.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

A single ember escaped and shot skyward like a comet.

Somewhere, far away, Aarav opened his eyes mid-meditation, and for a heartbeat, he remembered a woman's face—smiling, wild-eyed, haloed by fire.

He didn't know why…

…but he wept.