Ashes of Dharma

They called it Asthimat Nagar—City of Bones.

Built in a sunken valley, carved into cliffs of white stone and ancient burial grounds. A holy place once, now twisted by power. No crops grew here. No birds flew overhead. Only merchants, mercenaries, and pilgrims of questionable gods walked its narrow paths.

Aarav arrived after seven days of travel—his feet bloodied, clothes tattered, the scroll clutched to his chest.

The air was thick with incense and decay.

At the gates, two guards stopped him. Their forearms were tattooed with the mark of a new god—a wheel of fire with an open eye in the center. Worship of Vaikuntharaja was strong here.

"Purpose?" one asked.

"Pilgrimage," Aarav replied.

The guard squinted. "To who?"

Aarav met his gaze. "To none of your gods."

They let him pass—but watched him closely.

He followed the map through narrow alleys, past shrines of bone and vendors selling faith in bottles—sacred ash, bottled chants, false relics. The deeper he went, the quieter it got.

At the city's edge, half-buried in cliffside shadow, stood a domed ruin with a rusted gate.

The Hall of Mirrors.

Inside, dust floated like ghosts. Broken glass covered the walls—fragments of ancient obsidian mirrors. Each pane showed something different: a past, a possible future, a secret fear. Not illusions—reflections of the soul.

He stepped into the center.

The mark on his palm began to burn.

A voice echoed—not from the mirrors, but from within:

"You've entered the First Gate. To proceed, you must break the reflection that binds you."

Aarav looked around. One mirror showed him as a king, worshipped. Another as a corpse, forgotten. A third showed nothing—only darkness.

He walked to that one—and punched it.

Glass shattered.

And the Gate opened.

Behind it: stairs that led downward, into the unseen earth.

His journey had just begun.