The rain had stopped long ago, but the rooftop still held its breath.
The tiled stones, darkened by the monsoon's farewell tears, shimmered faintly under the weight of memory. Below, the city of Mumbai moved on—horns, trains, hungry engines that did not care for the dominions rising or falling around them. But up here, atop Desire's old temple outpost, the air hung different. It was older. It carried the scent of something once broken and now only half-healed.
Veyne stood facing the city, palms pressed against the moss-slick railing. His breath moved like a quiet wind, steady but touched with weight. Behind him, Nalini wrapped her shawl tighter. The night was warm, but the air had turned uncanny—as if it too was remembering.
"You were quiet, the whole ascent," she said softly. "The city doesn't frighten you anymore?"
Veyne chuckled. It was a dry sound, not bitter but... shaped like it could be. "The city is honest. Its cruelty is out in the open. Its rot walks with pride. That, I can respect."
Nalini moved closer, her bare feet making no sound against the stone. "And yet, here we are. On the roof of the place you once set aflame."
Veyne turned, eyes gleaming in the half-light. "Sometimes, to reclaim what's yours, you must first see it burn. This rooftop—it's seen betrayal, lust, sacrifice... everything Desire once stood for. And everything Order tried to choke out of it."
He tilted his head, his tone dipping. "But tonight, I keep seeing his face."
"Elias," Nalini whispered.
He nodded. "I cannot run from it anymore. His blade. His eyes. He didn't just betray me. He pitied me. That is what haunts me."
They stood in silence for a moment. Mumbai continued humming below, oblivious to gods in exile. Then Veyne stepped forward and sat on the low ledge.
"You told me something, once," he began. "You said Law was never meant to rule with steel. It was meant to balance the fire and the wind. I did not understand then. I was too full of wrath."
Nalini joined him. "You needed to be. No kingdom is revived with kindness alone."
Veyne glanced skyward, the faintest stars visible between clouds. "But now Law has returned, and I feel... hollow."
She did not answer. Instead, she reached into the folds of her shawl and pulled out an old, silver-framed shard of glass.
"This," she said, "was once part of the mirror hall in the House of Law. Not the court, the chamber. The place where initiates saw not their reflection—but their consequence."
Veyne took it, running a finger along the crack running through its centre.
"In that mirror," Nalini continued, "you do not see your face. You see what the world becomes because of you."
He laughed, tired and honest. "And here I thought I already knew."
Nalini smiled. "Would you try it?"
Veyne raised an eyebrow. "Does it still work?"
"Only if you mean it."
Veyne looked down into the shard. It showed nothing at first—only his reflection, blurred, shifting with the wind. Then it changed.
A boy with grey eyes, screaming for mercy. A city with banners of ash. A child taught to kneel before a burning crown. Seraya, golden and grieving, whispering something he could not hear. Elias—eyes cold, lips trembling, walking away from a temple as it collapsed.
And then—himself. Sitting on a throne of flame, alone.
Veyne blinked.
"Did it show?" Nalini asked gently.
He handed her the shard. "It showed me everything I've built. And everything I've lost doing so."
She didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. Instead, she touched his shoulder and said, "You have brought Law back, Veyne. That was never meant to be done by one man. You walk where none have dared to. Even the Watchers keep their distance."
A gust of wind rose from the street below, warm and thick with incense from a night procession. Veyne let it wash over him. The scent reminded him of Valgard. Of fire and ocean. Of things no longer alive.
He closed his eyes and began to murmur:
"Dharmo rakshati rakshitah — Those who protect Dharma, are protected by it."
The words echoed softly, wrapped in a breeze that wasn't entirely from Mumbai.
Nalini, surprised, responded with the next line, older than both their memories:
"Yatra dharmasya glanir bhavati—Whenever righteousness declines..."
He joined her in unison, the hymn rising like a forgotten lullaby:
"...Abhyutthanam adharmasya, tadātmānaṃ sṛijāmyaham."
("...and unrighteousness rises, I manifest myself.")
The silence that followed was not empty. It was sacred.
"You remember more than you let on," Nalini said.
"I remember everything. I just... fear what I must do with that memory."
"You still see him in the flame?"
He nodded.
"Elias... I don't know what he is now. Ghost, echo, traitor. But I think he believed he was saving me."
Nalini looked at him, long and full. "Would you kill him again?"
Veyne's jaw tightened. "No. I think... next time, I'll ask him why."
A slow exhale left Nalini's lips. "Then perhaps the Law in you has begun to listen."
They stayed there, long after the stars had hidden behind clouds again. A rooftop. A fragment of glass. A memory no longer buried.
And in the unseen distance, across the city's electric sprawl, the Dominion of Knowledge stirred.
The next day, Mumbai was smouldering in its own weight. The kind of humid day where the air clings to your skin like memory—half-sweet, half-suffocating.
Veyne walked behind Nalini through a narrow alley lined with spice vendors and rusted drainpipes. They had slipped out before dawn, taking no vehicle, no entourage. Only silence. And a name.
Yogmaya Reading Room.
It was a place the city had forgotten, even though it stood just two streets from a metro station. The building itself looked like it had grown tired of being seen—colonial bones cracked with moss, a faded board dangling by a single nail, pigeons ruling its broken windows. It smelled of old paper and lost time.
"Are you sure?" Veyne asked.
Nalini nodded. "This place holds the paper-trail of the Order's truths—and their lies. Some of what was written before they rewrote the world still lingers here. Manuscripts. Court scrolls. A copy of the Seventh Codex, perhaps, if we're lucky."
She paused at the heavy wooden doors, her fingers brushing the engraved lock.
"They used to say," she murmured, "that truth has no language. But those who wished to bury it wrote in tongues no longer spoken."
She slipped a brass key from beneath her sleeve—an old one, shaped like a lotus—and unlocked the door.
Inside, the reading room greeted them with a sigh.
It was vast and dim, with bookshelves lining the walls like ribs of an ancient beast. Dust rose in lazy spirals, catching the faint shafts of light that pierced through the cracks in the high ceiling. A massive table dominated the centre, layered with old folios, loose leaves, and tea-stained notes, untouched for decades.
Veyne stepped in slowly. The silence here was different. It wasn't empty—it was full. Weighted with waiting.
"It smells like... dreams no one finished," he whispered.
Nalini smiled, and her voice was nearly inaudible. "That's what history is."
They moved toward the central table. Nalini began leafing through an ancient bundle wrapped in red silk—legal edicts, written in ink faded to the colour of dried roses. Veyne, meanwhile, was drawn to the northern wall, where the shelves were marked with an old, almost childlike script: Dominion Fragmenta.
He ran his fingers along the spines. Some were made of leather, some bark, some woven cloth. One book was bound in copper plates, tied with thread. He picked it up and opened it carefully.
Inside, a shloka was etched not in ink, but with pressure—deeply, as if someone had written it using their fingernail and fury.
"नियतिं संहृत्य मया नियमो भवति ।
यत्र धर्मो म्लायति, तत्र विधिर्भविष्यति ॥"
("Where fate dissolves, I become the rule.
Where Dharma fades, there shall rise the Verdict.")
Veyne stared.
"A monk or priest didn't write this," he muttered. "This was someone... someone trying to preserve something as it was falling apart."
Nalini came over and looked at it. "It's written in the dialect of Anvala—lost with the Dominion of Law. That line... it's from the last Council of Fire. When they knew they were being swallowed."
She paused. "What else is in there?"
Veyne turned the page slowly. The script changed—it was a record, a trial log. But the accused was... unnamed. Their title was only marked as The Blind Flame.
"Listen to this," he read aloud:
"Let it be known that The Blind Flame, though wielding no sword, did rend the hearts of three dominions. Their punishment shall not be death, for death is too small a verdict. They shall be sealed within time—between fire and law, where neither can burn nor bind."
Nalini frowned. "That's not metaphor. That's literal."
"They sealed someone?"
"No. They sealed an idea."
She touched the copper cover. "There was a time when the Dominions feared each other more than they feared the fall. The Blind Flame must've been someone... or something... that refused to choose sides. A force of law, but also of rebellion."
Veyne whispered, almost without meaning to, "Could it be me?"
Nalini's face turned, sharp and still.
"Not you. Not entirely. But... maybe a version of you. Or someone you once were."
Veyne sat down on the floor, cross-legged, the book heavy in his lap.
"All this time, I thought I was reclaiming dominions that were taken. But what if I'm not reclaiming anything? What if I'm just... fulfilling an old verdict?"
Nalini joined him. "Then maybe the verdict was never wrong."
He looked up at her. "Even when it broke me?"
"Especially then."
The silence grew dense, like the weight of unsaid things.
Suddenly, the wind outside shifted. Papers fluttered. A single parchment fell from the rafters above, spiraling slowly before landing beside Veyne's knee.
It was blank at first glance.
But as he picked it up, ink began to rise—black and purposeful.
A symbol emerged. A circle with seven sigils inside it—one of which now blazed in white.
"The Circle of Influence," Veyne whispered. "Desire. Order. Law."
"And the rest?" Nalini asked, leaning over.
"They're asleep," Veyne said. "But not for long."
The parchment trembled.
Without warning, it caught fire—not in flames, but in light. The symbol burned itself into his mind, and then vanished, leaving only ashes.
"Someone knows we're here," Veyne murmured.
Nalini rose. "Then we've found what we came for. Let's go."
He didn't move yet. His eyes lingered on the copper-bound book. He tore out one page carefully, folded it, and slipped it into the lining of his coat.
Nalini gave him a questioning look.
"In case I forget who I'm becoming," he said.
As they left the library, the door creaked closed behind them, and the dust slowly settled again. But deep within the building's bones, something had awakened. A faint humming. A name whispered in an ancient tongue.
The Blind Flame... walks again.
It was twilight when they reached the edge of Fort, the shadows of the old colonial buildings growing long and lean like stories that refused to end. Veyne had not spoken much since the Yogmaya Reading Room. He walked as though something behind his eyes had stirred—and not yet settled.
Nalini led the way now, not with certainty but instinct. The closer they drew to the old High Court, the heavier the air seemed to grow. People passed by them on the road, but none looked at them. It was as though some veil had descended around them, thin but absolute.
"The court's upper floors are still active," Nalini said in a low voice, stopping near a rusted iron gate beside the boundary wall. "But beneath it, where the original records were kept, there's a place the Order never could clean."
Veyne touched the iron. "It remembers."
With one firm push, the gate gave way.
They entered the side compound, overgrown with banyan roots and old jasmine vines, the latter blooming as though it was still the month of Chaitra. A narrow stone staircase curled downward like a forgotten tongue. The smell of wet stone, ink, and scorched oil met them halfway down.
"I don't like this place," Nalini muttered. "It's like walking into the throat of something ancient."
Veyne nodded. "But ancient doesn't always mean dead."
The staircase ended in a cavernous, pillared hall—once a records chamber, now half-consumed by the ground. The stones sweated with moisture, and somewhere, water dripped in a slow, ceaseless rhythm.
But what caught his attention was the dais at the far end.
Circular. Carved in concentric patterns. Seven seats—now broken, covered in moss—but one stood taller than the others, untouched by time.
At its centre lay an inscription, faded yet burning in silence.
"यत्र न्यायं लुप्तं तत्र नयः भवति।
स्वयं अग्निः साक्ष्यं करिष्यति॥"
("Where justice is lost, law arises.
Fire itself shall bear witness.")
Veyne's breath caught.
"This is the first courtroom of the Dominion," he whispered. "This is where they passed their last verdicts... before the Fall."
He stepped onto the dais. The moment his boot touched the centre stone, the air shifted.
The darkness flickered.
And the chamber came alive.
Lines of light rose from the circle beneath him, tracing patterns in the air—sigils, scales, scripts in old tongues. One by one, the seven seats lit up, ghostly outlines forming over them—not people, but impressions. Echoes of presence.
A voice rang out—cold, feminine, not human.
"Verdict shall be spoken.
Presence has returned.
The Echo rises."
Nalini stepped back instinctively, her fingers wrapping around the small copper charm she wore.
But Veyne remained still.
The echoes—the seven chairs—began to murmur. Voices from before memory.
"He carries flame, but not law."
"He claims dominion, yet forgets the oath."
"He is not bound."
"He is unseen."
Then the voice returned:
"Veyne Alaric. You stand within the Circle of Judgement.
What say you of your crimes?"
He looked up. His voice was steady, but low.
"I do not know my crimes," he said. "But I remember the wound."
The echoes stirred again. One of the ghostly figures—the one seated on the highest chair—leaned forward.
"Then let the wound speak."
And just like that, the chamber bent.
Reality rippled. And Veyne was not standing in the courtroom anymore.
He was back in Valgard. The day of his coronation. The moment before the betrayal.
But this time, he was watching himself—from afar.
He saw Daemon in the ceremonial cloak, holding the Sword of Alaric.
He saw Elias whisper something as he knelt.
He saw Seraya, veiled in gold, a tear on her cheek.
He saw Lord Kael, expression unreadable, lifting a hand in benediction—or sentence.
And he saw himself—young, proud, unaware.
Then the blow fell.
And time froze.
The moment stretched—not like memory, but like judgement.
One of the echoing voices now said, louder:
"This was the wound. But not the crime."
The scene collapsed.
Veyne staggered, back in the ruined courtroom.
Blood trickled from his nose. Nalini rushed forward but he raised a hand.
"I need to finish this."
He turned to the echoes.
"I was betrayed," he said. "By blood, by love, by loyalty. I was left to die."
"But," he added, voice quieter, "I lived."
"Then speak your verdict," the voice replied. "Speak it in the tongue of fire. Speak it in the name of Law."
Veyne closed his eyes. The Ashen Crown pulsed behind his thoughts, threads of influence coiling.
He inhaled. And began to chant—not in any known language, but in a rhythm that felt as though it had lived in his bones.
"दीप्तस्य धर्मस्य पुनरागमनं।
नयस्य भ्रंशो न सदा स्थायी।
यदि धर्मो पतितः, तर्हि अग्निः न्यायः करिष्यति॥"
("Let Dharma rise again from flame.
Law may fall, but not forever.
Where Dharma fails, Fire shall deliver Justice.")
As the words echoed through the court, the air trembled.
The ghostly figures stood. The circle blazed.
And the central stone—beneath Veyne's feet—cracked.
From it rose a new symbol: a scale wreathed in flame.
The echoes bowed.
"The verdict is accepted.
The Dominion of Law remembers its name."
And just like that, the courtroom dimmed. The ghosts faded.
Only silence remained.
Nalini moved to Veyne. "You passed?"
"No," he said softly. "I chose."
She looked at him. "Then it begins."
He nodded.
"The world will not survive Law's return as it once was. But it might survive what I make of it now."
He stepped down from the dais.
And as they left the courtroom, behind them, the scale continued to glow.
Unseen. But not forgotten.
The night sat still upon the city, like an old judge who had finally closed his eyes—not in sleep, but in vigil.
Veyne and Nalini climbed the crumbling staircase that spiralled to the top of the ruined courthouse. It had no name in modern records. No pin on a digital map. But its bones still whispered. Its silence was heavier now, filled with the scent of rain and stone dust.
Mumbai pulsed beyond them—indifferent and infinite. Sea breeze carried the scent of salt and tar, but also something older: lamp oil, incense, burnt sugar. Somewhere, the last call to prayer echoed from a distant mosque. Nearby, bells rang from a roadside shrine. The city was worshipping, even if it didn't know who.
Nalini leaned against the terrace wall. "So this is it," she said. "The Dominion of Law. Recalled by one who once broke every tenet it stood for."
Veyne didn't respond. His eyes were on the distant skyline. The buildings rose like silent jurors—watching, waiting. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, not from cold, but weight. Ashen, regal, worn like memory.
"I didn't reclaim it," he said finally. "I was allowed to remember it."
Nalini gave him a side glance. "Same thing, isn't it?"
"No," he said. "Memory is a verdict. Reclamation is an ambition."
They stood in silence for a while.
Down below, the city did not pause. Its traffic moved like blood through veins. Trains cried in the distance. Lights flickered in windows—dreams waking, dying, repeating.
Veyne reached into the folds of his coat and brought out a small piece of parchment—ancient, frayed, written in ink that shimmered ever so faintly.
"The last edict of the Dominion," he said. "Given before it vanished. Before the Order devoured it."
He handed it to her.
Nalini read it aloud, voice hushed:
"धर्मो रक्षति रक्षितः।
यत्र सत्त्वं अस्ति, तत्र न्यायः अस्ति।
न न्यायार्थं युद्धः, किन्तु न्यायाय युद्धम्।॥"
("Dharma protects the one who protects it.
Where there is courage, there is justice.
Not war for justice, but justice that demands war.")
She looked up. "That last line… it feels like it was written for you."
Veyne didn't answer.
Instead, he whispered another mantra, more ancient still:
"न मृत्यो न शोकः न द्वेषः न मोहः।
केवलं न्यायः, यत्र अग्निः साक्ष्यं करिष्यति॥"
("No death, no grief, no hate, no illusion.
Only justice, where fire bears witness.")
Nalini closed her eyes. She let the shloka settle within her like a seed.
Then she said quietly, "You've lit a match in a forest soaked in oil."
"I know," Veyne said. "But I won't burn just yet."
From his pocket, he drew something else. A fragment of charred wood—shaped like a gavel, but ancient, not of this time. It pulsed gently with light.
"This belonged to one of the Seven Judges," he said. "The last of the Flamebearers."
Nalini touched it. "You've gathered relics of Desire. Commanded the remnants of Order. Now this."
"Law doesn't command," Veyne said. "It watches. It waits. And when it acts, it does so without remorse."
She studied his face in the moonlight.
"You're changing," she said.
"I'm remembering," he replied. "That's worse."
A lone crow landed on the edge of the terrace, cawing once before flying off. A wind followed it—dry, sourceless.
"You said once," Nalini murmured, "that the Ashen Crown feeds on influence. Power. Devotion. But Law doesn't inspire devotion. It inspires fear."
"No," he said. "Law inspires obedience. But justice—justice can inspire belief."
She nodded. "So what comes next?"
He looked east—towards the sea.
"I let them know," he said. "That Law lives again. Not in books, not in marble halls. But in judgement that watches without blinking."
"And who will you judge first?"
He smiled, grim and tired. "Myself."
Then he pulled from beneath his cloak a thin gold thread—a remnant of Seraya's veil.
Nalini's eyes sharpened. "Why are you still carrying that?"
Veyne held it up to the moonlight. "Because she did not lie with her words," he said. "She lied with her silence. There is truth even in that."
He tied the thread around the fragment of the gavel.
"She was part of the verdict. All of them were. And if I erase their memory, I become the very thing they tried to build from my ashes."
Nalini didn't interrupt. She watched.
Finally, he placed the relic at the centre of the rooftop, on a circle of salt and soot.
He lit a single flame beside it.
Not bright. Not dramatic.
Just steady.
"There," he said. "Let the world know. Law watches now. Not from above. Not from within temples or courts."
He stepped back.
"But from those who've been broken and are still willing to judge."
The flame flickered. Caught wind. Did not go out.
Nalini whispered, "We're not ready."
"No one ever is," he said.
And as they descended the rooftop, the city below remained blind to the fire above—but perhaps, not for long.