“A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno.

He had tried mastering this timing by counting breaths or keeping beats, but the moment always defied precision. There was no rhythm to memorize, only shifting markers to watch for: the thief's pungent fear, the pressing heat of the crowd's panic, a seller distracted by fleeting drama.

“A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno.

“A compact ledger of the world’s distributed sacrifice, holding essence of time and toil through common agreement.

A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno. A chain reaction is beautiful, but even more so is the spark's innocence.

The first few times Kshar died, the implosion had caught him mid-slither. Now he kept his distance from where the scooter would crash, far down the market's cliffside terraces. You never get used to dying, no matter how many times you wake up from it.

Kshar stared into the abyss of untested permutations. Each market day a perfect forgery of the last, yet treacherously different. Like dust motes in sunlight. Some variations whispered, others screamed, but all conspired to waste precious time.

The vaanars descended behind him, swift, relentless... Each vaanar strike bred deeper anger. Protesters smashed the skandha-stone pillars, and the splintered shards became weapons as if that was what they were always meant to be.

An artisan caught Kshar’s eye, waving a stylus carved from a colhaan’s leg-bone. “A portrait, friend? Carved fresh\\!” he called, etching detailed faces into giant insect shells that released fragrant resin dust. Kshar’s heat pits flickered with a warm signature they’d picked up before. He didn’t look up. He knew. There were eyes upon him.

Kshar's heat pits flickered with a warm signature they'd picked up before. He didn't look up. He knew. There were eyes upon him.

Vaanars riding two-legged colhaans formed a living wall around it. They led their blind mounts with sonar rattlers. Their crimson-dyed fur marked them as elite militia.

Stones whistled through market air, finding flesh with an accuracy bred by years of bowing.

Though *again* wasn’t quite right, he thought. *Again* implied something happening once, and then happening once more. This was the same place, the same moment, just a different could-be. And it wasn’t really happening. *Surely, the great Divyas have a word for it.* The first few times Kshar died, the implosion had caught him mid-slither.

Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail. It was a price all urban naags paid to fit in. His body was built for sliding along the ground, not this strained mimicry of bipeds.

Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail. It was a price all urban naags paid to fit in. His body was built for sliding along the ground, not this strained mimicry of bipeds.

Though *again* wasn’t quite right, he thought. *Again* implied something happening once, and then happening once more. This was the same place, the same moment, just a different could-be. And it wasn’t really happening. *Surely, the great Divyas have a word for it.* The first few times Kshar died, the implosion had caught him mid-slither.

Kshar moved on, keeping his cobra-hood flat against his back. Another inheritance that city life had tamed. These days, flaring it was merely an admission of weakness, no longer signaling the lethality it once had.

Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail. It was a price all urban naags paid to fit in. His body was built for sliding along the ground, not this strained mimicry of bipeds. His long, scaled fingers worked the fastenings.

“A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno. A chain reaction is beautiful, but even more so is the spark’s innocence.” A procession of a dozen ornate carriages wound its way through the market’s distant quarter.

“A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno. A chain reaction is beautiful, but even more so is the spark’s innocence.” A procession of a dozen ornate carriages wound its way through the market’s distant quarter. At their center, a palanquin draped in rare thraak silk shifted colors with each sway.

Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail. It was a price all urban naags paid to fit in.

People sought predictability, the equilibrium of the average. This creature's very existence was a provocation. Its asymmetry would mark it as something to be corrected, or destroyed.

The naag clans had always sent their runts on risky errands. Prison or death would filter weakness from the bloodline. But when Darib's pearl-soft scales first brushed his chest, Kshar had made an unthinkable choice: his son would live. Even if it meant taking on a hundred missions like this one.

But when Darib's pearl-soft scales first brushed his chest, Kshar had made an unthinkable choice: his son would live. Even if it meant taking on a hundred missions like this one.

“A compact ledger of the world’s distributed sacrifice, holding essence of time and toil through common agreement.” He’d flicked the coin back. “But I seek something more… fundamental.” It was a price only a certain kind of employer could comprehend, let alone pay.

“A compact ledger of the world’s distributed sacrifice, holding essence of time and toil through common agreement.” He’d flicked the coin back. “But I seek something more… fundamental.” It was a price only a certain kind of employer could comprehend, let alone pay.

When Darib was born, Kshar had watched his muscles spasm, noticed how his tail already showed signs of failing. There was an established path for such things... But when Darib's pearl-soft scales first brushed his chest, Kshar had made an unthinkable choice: his son would live. Even if it meant taking on a hundred missions like this one.

Each tethering revealed the same market morning, exactly a month ahead. The tree used his mind to calculate every detail till tomorrow became as vivid as now.

Later, when asked how the riot began, the vaanar would recount every stone hurled, every scream. But he would never think to say: it began when the naag gave the girl a fruit.

Adharvan's reply had illuminated the way. 'A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno. A chain reaction is beautiful, but even more so is the spark's innocence.'

Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail. It was a price all urban naags paid to fit in. His body was built for sliding along the ground, not this strained mimicry of bipeds. He tightened the tension-weave vest around his middle. The fabric's hair-thin bands flexed like tiny muscles, bracing his spine. His long, scaled fingers worked the fastenings. The contraption eased the pain, but never enough.

A network of poles and ropes turned the market's airspace into a vaanar's path. The enforcer could swing across the entire market without ever touching the ground.

The vaanar’s pink fur marked him as a low-rank patroller. His tail-tip shifted nervously. The diamond-studded mace strapped to it shimmered in the light. Kshar had seen what one swing could do. The enforcer dropped to a lower beam, tracking Kshar’s movements.

He slipped through a narrow gap between two shops with living, breathing walls. His thick serpentine tail pressed against the ground, steadying him as he rose upright upon it. Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail.

Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions. From diplomatic chambers to teaching halls, billions dipped in and out of Maya daily, seeking whatever flavors of impossible their hearts desired.

Kshar moved on, keeping his cobra-hood flat against his back. Another inheritance that city life had tamed. These days, flaring it was merely an admission of weakness, no longer signaling the lethality it once had.

'The only thing worse than being born in Khaasiya is when a garuda finds skandha beneath your home.' An elderly woman limped toward them, laying a frail hand on the mother's shoulder. Her face twisted as she looked past Yachay.

Each tethering revealed the same market morning, exactly a month ahead. The tree used his mind to calculate every detail till tomorrow became as vivid as now... His first attempts had cost him whole days. He was beginning to doubt if he could master this future before it arrived.

The statue's head served as an observation chamber. Its eyes were vast windows, made from the polished chitin of giant insects. A dual-headed gandharva was stationed within: one head watching the riot, the other tethered to a Maya tree that had grown within the statue's hollow core. Together, they transmitted everything they witnessed to the tree.

The statue's head served as an observation chamber. Its eyes were vast windows, made from the polished chitin of giant insects. A dual-headed gandharva was stationed within: one head watching the riot, the other tethered to a Maya tree that had grown within the statue's hollow core. Together, they transmitted everything they witnessed to the tree.

His tail curled back, depositing one sunpear into the girl's small palms. She turned to his hiding spot with a gap-toothed grin. Before she could form a thought, Kshar nudged her, pivoting her to face the fruitseller. No words, just a subtle rearrangement in the world's geometry.

Wing. Garuda. Ranga, where the Trials would be held. It must fall. The certain outcome must not come to pass. He had checked Divya Maya through his own bonsai, searching for Tarkash's future. Every simulation showed the same result. Tarkash ascending. Tarkash triumphant.

An ally critical in one attempt would vanish in the next, only to resurface cycles later, mockingly out of reach. A pendulum that crashed into Tarkash's palanquin in one run, swung uselessly through empty air in the next, its perfect timing too rigid to adapt to shifting possibilities.

While unlikely events rippled like fleeting wisps, likelier ones, frequent across moments, overlapped and became more visible.

In Maya’s endless dreamscapes, they raced biomechanical marvels through phantom skies, fought drawn-out mythic battles, mastered forgotten arts from great masters, built and lost fortunes between breaths. Kshar had himself completed adventures spanning generations over a single evening’s tethering. For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions. From diplomatic chambers to teaching halls, billions dipped in and out of Maya daily, seeking whatever flavors of impossible their hearts desired.

For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

Divya Maya calculations depend upon harnessing countless minds. The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost. Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

Each tethering revealed the same market morning, exactly a month ahead. The tree used his mind to calculate every detail till tomorrow became as vivid as now.

A spindly limb reached out. Six uneven fingers unfolded like a flower, grasping Yachay's index finger. Those strange eyes blinking at him held an awareness that bridged the gap between their species.

Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions. Billions dipped in and out of Maya daily. ...it doesn't simulate consciousness, it IS consciousness distributed across a civilisation.

Those strange eyes blinking at him held an awareness that bridged the gap between their species.

He had worked with many gandharvas in the service, watching their divided attention solve puzzles that baffled single minds.

Divya Maya shows the nirmaya's actions creating ripples. Small consequences branch out over the next five months before merging back into futures we have approved. We gather to prune these branches and reduce the cascading effects to mere days.

Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions.

Kshar no longer questioned the restriction. Weeks ago, when he had asked why, Tiresia-Sanjay had replied cryptically, "When you gaze into Maya, it gazes back into you."

Three months had passed since Kshar's last tethering to the great Maya network. Longer than anyone he knew had ever gone untethered. Far longer than legally permissible.

Each tethering revealed the same market morning, exactly a month ahead.

Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions. Billions dipped in and out of Maya daily.

This Maya was a composite. A moment from one likelihood beaded with the next moment from another, creating a chain of all likely futures for this destined market hour. As if a chronicler had plucked fragments of subtly different fortune-tellings from a thousand seers and stitched them together. Each line spoken in a distinct voice, yet telling the story whole.

From diplomatic chambers to teaching halls, billions dipped in and out of Maya daily, seeking whatever flavours of impossible their hearts desired.

Stones pelted the chitin windows, fracturing them. Kshar almost pitied the mob's futile attempt to blind the city's memory. They never understood that true surveillance lived in the eyes of their own loved ones.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

Stones whistled through market air, finding flesh with an accuracy bred by years of bowing.

They never understood that true surveillance lived in the eyes of their own loved ones.

Later, when asked how the riot began, the vaanar would recount every stone hurled, every scream. But he would never think to say: it began when the naag gave the girl a fruit.

# **ALL THINGS CONSIDERED**

## *“All things considered, the flutter of a wing can never alter the direction of the wind.”* *— Vishwakarma, the spine of the great body*

Maya tendrils withdrew from Kshar’s mouth, leaving their cloying sap behind.

Adharvan's clandestine Maya told no tales. Each tethering revealed the same market morning, exactly a month ahead. The tree used his mind to calculate every detail till tomorrow became as vivid as now.

“Belief is for those who can’t measure.

Once, judges performed this ritual to acknowledge justice's price. Each shard of nail was a token of shared loss with the condemned. It was a quiet prayer that the cycles of crime and punishment would someday break too.

This Maya was a composite. A moment from one likelihood beaded with the next moment from another, creating a chain of all likely futures for this destined market hour.

In Maya’s endless dreamscapes, they raced biomechanical marvels through phantom skies, fought drawn-out mythic battles, mastered forgotten arts from great masters, built and lost fortunes between breaths. Kshar had himself completed adventures spanning generations over a single evening’s tethering. For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

Belief is for those who can't measure.

A long-dormant parable from his childhood surfaced. Aadi dreamed that she was an etherfly. Upon waking, she knew not if she was a naag who dreamed of being an etherfly, or if she was an etherfly now dreaming of being a naag.

Aadi dreamed that she was an etherfly. Upon waking, she knew not if she was a naag who dreamed of being an etherfly, or if she was an etherfly now dreaming of being a naag.

Later, when asked how the riot began, the vaanar would recount every stone hurled, every scream. But he would never think to say: it began when the naag gave the girl a fruit.

Those emberglow stripes behind the chitin glass? The chaatak sees perfect plumage, the promise of a most beautiful, impossibly healthy mate. Those dots overhead? They pulse like the mineral salts it spends years seeking. Always approaching, never arriving. What prison could be more exquisite than desire?

What prison could be more exquisite than desire?”

“Twenty days without a meal, and you feed me allegory.

Two minds in one body. Two hungers, two doubts, two thoughts pulling different ways every waking moment. We argue with ourselves through every choice.

'Cages belong to cruder times.' Tiresia-Sanjay's grafting head glanced up. 'Those emberglow stripes behind the chitin glass? The chaatak sees perfect plumage, the promise of a most beautiful, impossibly healthy mate. Those dots overhead? They pulse like the mineral salts it spends years seeking. Always approaching, never arriving. What prison could be more exquisite than desire?'

Aadi dreamed that she was an etherfly. Upon waking, she knew not if she was a naag who dreamed of being an etherfly, or if she was an etherfly now dreaming of being a naag.

Lassos, meant for naags, wrapped around manushya necks instead. Bodies jerked, feet leaving ground. Combat nets fell from above, iron mesh on flesh.

Once they set up the work camps, they'll need hundreds of us. Shaft-watchers, drifters, kulie-supervisors…

# **A SEED OUT OF PLACE**

## *“A wild seed doesn’t exist.

Beneath the spore population, Yachay could see a skeleton of protein threads. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

'Here's from naag Chandi's Fruits of Fortitude. "Your voice is a weapon. Use it against every injustice, even if it costs you everything." Whereas the celebrated mentor in My Flesh, Your Talons says to his protege, "Pick your battles wisely. Live to fight another day. Often, silence is the bravest choice."'

Sumegh jumped in. 'Everyone knows. We've been training for it in the games. Especially Fruits of Fortitude.'

This manushya accepts the three debts of his life. Pitruka, Rushika, Divyaka. Currency denominations mirror debt tiers.

"A shrieking nut," Ayn said, walking closer. "Deep in Kaav, rakshasi children who've never seen a manushya call it the 'manushya scream'. To them, your kind exist only as nightmares in Maya tales."

Once they set up the work camps, they'll need hundreds of us. Shaft-watchers, drifters, kulie-supervisors…

'They start clearing Raza in a few hours,' Lukago said. 'For the new skandha mines.' 'Better to avoid Raza in any case,' Mikash said, his voice hardening. 'Place is crawling with troublemakers.'

His great-grandmother would have hissed at such compromises, and even more so at the reason he made them. When Darib was born, Kshar had watched his muscles spasm, noticed how his tail already showed signs of failing. There was an established path for such things.

An old monk cradled an infant, while another monk pressed an aerial root to the child's belly.

"Can you believe it? The child's already over a month old," she said, eyes bright with excitement. "The gandharva wanted to impose a fine for late tethering."

A swarm cloud of quivering tej spores created the Divya's likeness as if held in a glass sculpture. Beneath: a skeleton of protein threads. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

A swarm cloud of quivering tej spores created the Divya's likeness as if held in a glass sculpture.

He had worked with many gandharvas in the service, watching their divided attention solve puzzles that baffled single minds.

You want me to follow my mind or just listen to you? Both. I followed you here. Not exactly, but fine. So next time, you lead.

Intelligence itself is prediction. From the simplest creature retreating from harm to minds charting distant stars, all seek to answer the same question: what comes next?

Beneath the spore population, Yachay could see a skeleton of protein threads. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

*Clever creature. Outsmarts the hunter by becoming the forest.*

The turloth mark on his foot was no longer a cherished memento but a brand of destiny.

To welcome a new gift often means bidding farewell to an old one. The flesh has its wisdom. It will not bear more than it can sustain.

What will we do after I return from the Trials?” “You don’t come back from the Trials, son,” Daddu said. “You win, and you don’t come back at all.” The journey to the Kathari Monastery passed in taut silence.

I am offering everything. Our equipment, our permits, our methods recorded over a lifetime of distilling the dye.

That’s not you speaking, son. These are someone else’s misguided words.” “Daddu\\!” Yachay’s frustration boiled over, even as a part of him felt guilty.

Every truth seems to have a counter-truth. 'Live for yourself,' 'Live for others'... 'Only hope can instill change,' 'Only fear can instill change'...

But then he thought of his own home. Had its gentle bends molded him?

A swarm cloud of quivering tej spores created the Divya likeness. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

Its fractal branches reached upward, splitting and rebraiding. Aerial roots cascaded down like a waterfall frozen in time.

Beneath the spore population, Yachay could see a skeleton of protein threads. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

Why do the seekers cling to their fragments so fiercely?

Beneath the spore population, Yachay could see a skeleton of protein threads. Its chemical whispers herded the spores into harmony: countless individual decisions creating a beautiful whole that no single spore could comprehend.

Why do the seekers cling to their fragments so fiercely when they could simply stitch them together and see the whole bhooyan?

“Did you say something to those youths?” “Just that I couldn’t join their game in Maya. The usual lie: temporary illness.” “What’s untrue about that, son?” Daddu’s voice gentled.

Why do the seekers cling to their fragments so fiercely when they could simply stitch them together and see the whole bhooyan?

The officer chuckled, flicking his tufted ears. "Names?" "I am Daddu," the old man said. "This is my grandson, Yachay." "And from here to Dhaara next?" the vaanar officer said.

Every truth seems to have a counter-truth. 'Live for yourself,' 'Live for others'... 'Only hope can instill change,' 'Only fear can instill change'... Would you rather all of Neh had only one truth? A single set of rules?

“Physically, yes,” Adharvan said.

For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

Your mind learns the patterns with each attempt. It needs to process only the variations.

Every form practiced until muscles remembered what the mind forgot.

Waaz-nayak, the divya of strategy, flicked his tongue, tasting the acrid tang of hatred in the simulated air of the city.

their shared consciousness turned inward to debate some conflict.

The insects crafted architecture that flowed like frozen waves throughout the chamber—a stark contrast to the rigid vaanar grid beyond.

There were principles of primacy, privacy, provenance, merger, and termination—the very nature of identity and its sovereignty within Maya.

The path enters the body. The body becomes the path. It learns without knowing it is learning.

It manufactured the feeling of rightness, but the locust felt only the rightness, not the making of it.

The path enters the body. The body becomes the path.

“Stay back\\!” Daddu shouted from above, snapping Yachay from his trance. He froze mid-step, suddenly aware he’d been climbing the slope. A sentry barreled toward him, tail-mace rising. Yachay flinched, but the vaanar toppled mid-stride, crashing past him down the slope. Above, Daddu flickered into view, already retreating to intercept another threat.

When his gandharva contacts found no trace of Adharvan in the public registry, Kshar wasn't surprised. More telling was Tiresia-Sanjay's presence. Gandharvas served only the Divyas, yet here was one bound to a young manushya's will.

Above, vaanars and garudas phased in and out of the aerial paths, staccatoing back and forth. And hands... Fingers multiplied like echoes, each appendage desperate to perform every gesture it had ever known, would know, could know, all at once.

What causal currents, Kshar wondered, would funnel her presence here with such unyielding certainty in the weeks ahead?

His questioning coiled into purpose.

The path enters the body. The body becomes the path. It learns without knowing it is learning.

Your mind learns the patterns with each attempt. It needs to process only the variations.

Your mind learns the patterns with each attempt. It needs to process only the variations.

In the service, Kshar had confiscated many standalone trees. But those were crude things grown in basement vats, producing uncontrolled hallucinations for thrill-seekers. Sheshan Maya, they called them at the branch, named after Sheshan Yug, the dark ages they were invented in.

Enormous wings with metal feathers spread out from its sides, flapping back and forth in slow, mechanical sweeps. Each pass cast moving shadows over the market below, bright day and sudden dusk chasing each other.

We’ve been training for it in the games. Especially Fruits of Fortitude.” “All you boys with your windup spring games.” Jiara laughed.

*Surely, the great Divyas have a word for it.* The first few times Kshar died, the implosion had caught him mid-slither. Now he kept his distance from where the scooter would crash, far down the market’s cliffside terraces. *You never get used to dying, no matter how many times you wake up from it.* He slipped through a narrow gap between two shops with living, breathing walls.

He found Ayn’s true form silently suspended amid the tree’s aerial roots. Her eyes moved rapidly beneath her eyelids, just as he had seen Daddu’s do in deep sleep. A thick mycorrhizal tendril had snaked into her back pouch. This, Yachay inferred, must be tethering. An adjacent gelatinous screen shimmered with an alternate perspective.

“Did you imagine a fruit could ignite a city?”

“The fulcrums were there, in Dhaara’s bones.

Nairavi paused before reciting the familiar words. "To pave the path of least resistance for the Great-Divya." Hidamma allowed her gaze to settle meaningfully on the lotus. "Have you?" Nairavi's talons flexed against the ice. She tapped one claw on the thick, translucent barrier.

Do you claim your debts are settled, and you'll earn your chhavi upon death? Denied. You are sentenced to the Wheel of Offering.

He slipped through a narrow gap between two shops with living, breathing walls.

This manushya accepts the three debts of his life. With precious offerings to the mother tree, he begins the repayment of his debts. We hope that… Soraken may someday ascend!

'The only thing worse than being born in Khaasiya is when a garuda finds skandha beneath your home.' An elderly woman limped toward them, laying a frail hand on the mother's shoulder. Her face twisted as she looked past Yachay. Another bhooyan pounded toward them. The mother tugged at Yachay's sleeve. 'The Divyas have forsaken Khaasiya. Come with us.'

“Social integration through surgery. How many young naags will surrender their venom glands this Pancham?” “The city halls are expecting a full house.” Adharvan’s quill paused.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

What's so complicated? Twelve accused. Twelve convictions. Twelve sent to the Wheel. We simply deliver all twelve laalmanis we collect.

Being a pragya, Ayn was genetically more capable than her prerna kin of observing suffering without drowning in it. Had they been here, they would have been on the floor with Yachay, subsumed by his sorrow, incapable of separating themselves from the pain of another.

For the first time in his life, he felt no need to be in control.

It manufactured the feeling of rightness, but the locust felt only the rightness, not the making of it.

“Do you believe the Writ grants you anarchy?”

“It grants the right to refuse command when the guard has fallen to misuse by the host-state.”

No one breathed.

For the first time in his life, he felt no need to be in control.

Kshar had missed his chance at the Divya Trials during the lost years in detention.

Being a pragya, Ayn was genetically more capable than her prerna kin of observing suffering without drowning in it.

The judge shook his head. Twelve laalmanis not added to the state reserves? Maya would notice... Then perhaps we shouldn't keep this lively lot waiting.

This manushya accepts the three debts of his life.

This manushya accepts the three debts of his life. With precious offerings to the mother tree, he begins the repayment of his debts.

This was nothing like the Maya that Kshar knew. Maya trees stood in every corner of Neh, their tendrils connecting minds to shared visions. Kshar had himself completed adventures spanning generations over a single evening's tethering. But this was no ordinary Maya.

This manushya accepts the three debts of his life.

An old monk cradled an infant, while another monk pressed an aerial root to the child's belly. One month old and the network enters the body. The deepest feudalism integrates at the neural level. By the time you can consent, your mind is already infrastructure.

An old monk cradled an infant, while another monk pressed an aerial root to the child's belly. Nearby, a gandharva hung suspended in the tree's aerial roots, one head speaking while the other remained still.

For most, it was a powerful opiate: an ever-available escape from misery, mundanity, and the dread of meaninglessness. At once sanctuary and temptation, nourishment and fever dream.

An old monk cradled an infant, while another monk pressed an aerial root to the child's belly.

Kshar coaxed his stiff muscles and uncoiled from the basin. He slid over floor vents that released water-chilled air. The draft brushed his tail as he faced the gandharva. "Everything I thought I understood has shifted completely." He held firm against the flood within.

The father's scream tore through the city's skandha foundations, a plea to undo this nightmare. Kshar strained to hear, but couldn't catch the girl's name, which the frail manushya was trying to etch into the city's memory. The market swallowed the father's rage into its underbelly where it kindled and erupted.

Each vaanar strike bred deeper anger. Protesters smashed the skandha-stone pillars, and the splintered shards became weapons as if that was what they were always meant to be. The protesters' fury sought everything that had towered over them. The shops that loomed, the wares that gleamed, the high perches of the elite garudas that mocked them. The ancient marketplace foundations, laid long before uniform or uprising, trembled.

# **SAME MARKET TWICE**

## *“You never cross the same market twice.”* *— Niririn, the eyes of the great body*

##

Searing light enveloped Kshar, pulling him through tunnels of vein and root.

It manufactured the feeling of rightness, but the locust felt only the rightness, not the making of it.

Then a sweet scent touched its right antenna.

A moment from one likelihood beaded with the next moment from another, creating a chain of all likely futures for this destined market hour.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

A glow pulsed ahead. Soft amber, the color that meant mate. The flitt-locust flew toward it, and going forward felt good.

The air said yes. The light said yes. The distance closing said yes. Everything was agreeing with everything else, and the flitt-locust was at the center of the agreement.

This was what wings were for, what eyes were for, what the whole body had been waiting for without knowing it was waiting.

"Can you imagine what it is like to be a gandharva? Two minds in one body. Two hungers, two doubts, two thoughts pulling different ways every waking moment. We argue with ourselves through every choice. One head wants to rest, the other keeps listening for something wrong. Someone laughs and one head joins in while the other wonders if we are the object of the laughter. Our whole lives spent like this, Adharvan. Never at rest. Noise without end."

When hunger morphed to anger, it morphed its tools as well.

It manufactured the feeling of rightness, but the locust felt only the rightness, not the making of it.

When the last alternative crumbled, he finally accepted what he'd known since the beginning. The girl would have to be his lever. But his components were living beings, each with their own will and weight. Yet the desired outcome remained maddeningly out of reach.

It manufactured the feeling of rightness, but the locust felt only the rightness, not the making of it.

”

Did this absolve him of the tragedies about to come, if they unfolded exactly as rehearsed? For a brief breath, the chamber forgot its shape and gravity leached from the floor.

'That locust flew here in certainty. And it felt like light. The whole way here, it felt like light. Every wingbeat certain of purpose. That's the verm's gift. The locust's life meant something. It carried a message older than itself that it would never understand. It was part of something larger than its own hunger. It mattered. It was needed.'

'Two minds in one body. Two hungers, two doubts, two thoughts pulling different ways every waking moment. We argue with ourselves through every choice. One head wants to rest, the other keeps listening for something wrong. Someone laughs and one head joins in while the other wonders if we are the object of the laughter. Our whole lives spent like this, Adharvan. Never at rest. Noise without end.'

The future is no different; it’s simply the other direction.

You're doing something. I don't know what... A nirmaya could not have been predicted. It's not our failure.

“Enemies of the soil,” Mikash said, as if citing common knowledge. “Fighting the new mines when Khaasiya needs every skandha vein we can extract.” Lukago’s voice brightened. “Once they set up the work camps, they'll need hundreds of us. Shaft-watchers, drifters, kulie-supervisors…” “Who told you all this?” Vidha asked.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

Adharvan waited for more. For praise, perhaps. For the pride a father shows when a son exceeds expectations.

It didn't come.

"Yes, Ajoba. I won't fail you." Adharvan's voice cracked. He had meant to stay composed. "I confess something. I have been alone here a very long time. If it be your will, I would enter the Trials myself." He steadied himself. "You know what I am capable of. I would win. I would come to Divyalok. I would see you again."

"Can you imagine what it is like to be a gandharva? Two minds in one body. Two hungers, two doubts, two thoughts pulling different ways every waking moment. We argue with ourselves through every choice. One head wants to rest, the other keeps listening for something wrong. Someone laughs and one head joins in while the other wonders if we are the object of the laughter. Our whole lives spent like this, Adharvan. Never at rest. Noise without end."

"Three heads ago, we were at war with ourselves like every gandharva. Like this locust. Want pulling against fear. Doubt pulling against intent. Then something entered us. A voice. And the noise stopped. Both heads turned the same way. We knew what we were for."

A glow pulsed ahead. Soft amber, the color that meant mate. The flitt-locust flew toward it, and going forward felt good.

The air said yes. The light said yes. The distance closing said yes. Everything was agreeing with everything else, and the flitt-locust was at the center of the agreement.

This was what wings were for, what eyes were for, what the whole body had been waiting for without knowing it was waiting. Now the waiting was over. Now there was only the flying toward the meeting. The flitt-locust's body finally knew what it was for.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

The holds were spaced for kulie bodies, too close together, too diagonal, too oily, built for torsos that could fold into impossible contortions without complaint, for creatures whose deaths cost less than proper scaffolding.

Weary travelers, each choice in your life has led you to this moment. You stand before two ponds. One reflects your unvarnished self, every flaw laid bare. The other shows the person you aspire to be but can never become.

The nirmaya's actions creating ripples. Small consequences branch out over the next five months before merging back into futures we have approved. We gather to prune these branches and reduce the cascading effects to mere days.

A chhavi is how you see yourself, and how others see you inside Maya. It's an imprint of your memories, preferences, decisions, and dreams, gathered over a lifetime.

At first, kin frequented, rousing the chhavi into momentary animation through their attention's kindling. Their motives often mirrored those visiting the living elderly: seeking love's solace, resolutions for past indiscretions, or ledgers of intergenerational debts yet to be claimed from others.

The chhavi leads by three breaths.

In Tridha, colors and intensity conveyed additional context. By varying the etcher's angle and pressure, Yachay could write each symbol in a different color. This allowed him to effectively compress multiple ideas into a single symbol: its shape conveyed information, its position generated meaning, while its color expressed emotion.

Its asymmetry would mark it as something to be corrected, or destroyed.

His body was built for sliding along the ground, not this strained mimicry of bipeds.

He wanted to say, *I kept him safe because I wanted to.

Billions will compete. One will ascend.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

Offering

The old give their bodies so the young may still stake their chances. They never ask if the young would choose it.

A million pitrukas would buy him a chhavi. A shadow in the grove.

The old give their bodies so the young may stake their chances. They never ask if the young would choose it. Generational debt inscribed in biology, not contracts. Sacrifice as compulsory inheritance.

In Tridha, colors and intensity conveyed additional context. By varying the etcher's angle and pressure, Yachay could write each symbol in a different color.

“You are sentenced to the Wheel of Offering.” Spectators roared approval. The judge pressed a talon into a clay tablet, chipping his nail to seal the verdict.

The old give their bodies so the young may still stake their chances. They never ask if the young would choose it.

You built a wheel of offering so people could be drowned. Why?

I have been working on an invention. A new energy system which could transform our industries, our lives even. Air springs, free from the shackles of physical material... Divya Maya calculations depend upon harnessing countless minds. The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost. Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible.

Why prune the future when we can create it?... However, the council's purpose is not to further a single divya's enterprise. Our role is to safeguard Neh against destabilization.

The skandha industry is Neh's lifeblood... The reintroduction of thraak to their native habitat in Vayu will enrich its soils, rapidly boosting agriculture and silk production.

After reintroducing the thraak, wouldn't we be compelled to make another intervention to avert the rakshasi displacement as well?... We follow a principle of minimal intervention... Then each nudge seems to necessitate another, an endless chain of adjustments and interventions—

The reintroduction of thraak to their native habitat in Vayu will enrich its soils, rapidly boosting agriculture and silk production... A necessary sacrifice. Maya will mark them as enemies of the state to reduce rebellion risks in neighboring regions.

In Tridha, colors and intensity conveyed additional context. By varying the etcher's angle and pressure, Yachay could write each symbol in a different color. This allowed him to effectively compress multiple ideas into a single symbol: its shape conveyed information, its position generated meaning, while its color expressed emotion.

A wild seed has taken root in their blind spot. Their challenger lives. Invisible to Maya, untethered, a nirmaya.

“You are a nirmaya,” Daddu said.

No single jalpari unit lived more than a year, mere cells in a body. Yet this swarm had thrived across millennia. It was driven by twin hungers: one for flesh, the other for memories. Secrets passed from dying unit to newborn, an endless cycle of consumption and whispered lore.

Being a pragya, Ayn was genetically more capable than her prerna kin of observing suffering without drowning in it. Had they been here, they would have been on the floor with Yachay, subsumed by his sorrow, incapable of separating themselves from the pain of another. But even her emotional insulation had limits, and his incessant crying was pushing at its seams.

Ba had trained her to see the world through the interiority of every species. Rakshasi education involved elaborate lessons of sensory deprivation and sensory augmentation to grasp the innermost workings of diverse beings. Yet she failed to see manushyas'. She had to resist the urge to think of them as parasitic and insensitive toward others in their environment.

She noticed Tarkash looking at her, his golden eyes fixed on her face. His beak, slightly agape, the syrinx in his chest vibrating. He was speaking. She unblocked her ears.

"...days has it been?" Tarkash's melodic, polyphonic voice held a tinge of curiosity.

Ayn blinked, grappling with the query. "Since what?" Her own voice, coarse from exhaustion.

"Since you tethered to Maya." He blinked. Inner membranes swept horizontally across his eyes and then retracted swiftly.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

Each push set the scout unit spinning. Some molecules of cortisol brushed its tentacles. Food! But as it pulsed weakly, holding against the torrent… Seek! Nothing. Gone.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

They were dying together. He was inside them and they were around him and the river was swallowing them all, and in that shared swallowing, the difference between mouth and food meant nothing.

Cascading instructions rippled through the swarm. Orders flowed from body to body. Match your neighbour's turn. Rise if they fall.

It was driven by twin hungers: one for flesh, the other for memories. Secrets passed from dying unit to newborn, an endless cycle of consumption and whispered lore.

With individuals and cohorts dissolving into a whole, something stirred within. A sense of being. Together they became more than many.

Years had passed since the last communion. He had survived on fragments. Tiresia-Sanjay brought bonsai specimens from contraband markets across Neh. Unregistered seeds. Each one contained its own maze of puzzle-games. Treasure hunts that seemed designed for no one.

From diplomatic chambers to teaching halls, billions dipped in and out of Maya daily, seeking whatever flavors of impossible their hearts desired.

Scavengers, maggots, and I played an equal part in consuming death to make new life.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

Cascading instructions rippled through the swarm. Orders flowed from body to body. Match your neighbor's turn. Rise if they fall. Cohere in pairs. Soon all moved together, shifting forms seamlessly. The swarm kept transforming until prey panic spiked bright as a beacon. Remember configuration. They imprinted the pattern within each body. Countless echoes of that knowledge now lived within them, ready to reemerge when needed again.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

“To uproot a plant for its flesh, or recycle tissue that’s already come loose?” “Doesn’t your kind gain powers from what you consume?” “Everything alive does.” “I see no remorse for your bloodthirst.” Conviction built in the judge’s voice as he spoke.

A manushya refugee pushed through the crowd and crumpled beside his daughter. He cradled her head gently, as if to hold each vertebra in place. An unconscious hope that she might still wake. A rakshasi healer emerged from the circle of onlookers.

Your will does not sit above theirs. It has to find a place inside.

It felt good. Whole. I could feel the edges of myself thinning, as if I had always been a swarm and had only recently been pretending otherwise.

The ever-familiar Dhaara market bled into Kshar's perception, but something was fundamentally wrong. Around him, the market strobed and glitched. People stuttered between states of being.

It felt good. Whole. I could feel the edges of myself thinning, as if I had always been a swarm and had only recently been pretending otherwise.

You don’t pluck fruit. You design trees whose branches ache to shed it for you. You arrest moths in perpetual larva stages to spin your silk pavilions.” “And yet every larva is content,” Ayn said.

She snatched Yachay from the rising swarm's reach, and steered her serpentine jalpari upward.

Your will does not sit above theirs. It has to find a place inside.

Your will does not sit above theirs. It has to find a place inside.

”

Garuda pride was evolutionary plumage, loud displays that deterred rivals and attracted mates. The rakshasi psyche recoiled from such gaudy grandiosity.

When Ayn rode the swarm, her will had sat inside theirs like a fist inside a glove.

A sense of being. Together they became more than many. Curious, playful... loves to learn.

“To uproot a plant for its flesh, or recycle tissue that’s already come loose?” “Doesn’t your kind gain powers from what you consume?” “Everything alive does.” “I see no remorse for your bloodthirst.” Conviction built in the judge’s voice as he spoke. “This court finds you guilty of murder\\! Rakshasi Aynithema, gender pragya, you are sentenced to the—” “I demand my right for rakshasi co-jury,” Ayn interrupted. “Khaasiya law doesn’t guarantee such a right,” the judge declared.

Your will does not sit above theirs. It has to find a place inside.

It felt good. Whole. I could feel the edges of myself thinning, as if I had always been a swarm and had only recently been pretending otherwise.

Garuda pride was evolutionary plumage, loud displays that deterred rivals and attracted mates.

Her mind recoiled, secreting a chemical balm from her skin's pores to soothe the visceral horror, a reflex rooted in her species' communal evolution. As if attempting to physically shed the brutal thought, she convulsed involuntarily.

Startled, Yachay met her gaze, his pain mirrored in her eyes. Instinctively, she pressed her pheromone-damp palms against his wrists. He flinched, then relaxed, tension ebbing from his body.

And then, there was the third death. The final silence. The moment when the chhavi of the last person who remembered the deceased dissolved, and even echoes no longer carried the whisper of their name.

Desperate to comprehend Yachay's pain, Ayn conjured a terrifying image: her mother Bhadra vanishing into nothingness, leaving no trace, no chhavi.

The itch behind the eyes. The restless muscles.

a world without Maya defining and expanding her consciousness, and found that she could not.

pheromone-damp palms against his wrists... tension ebbing from his body.

Yachay no longer existed in any form. A life untethered from Maya left no chhavi, no trace in the great remembering. Nothing remained but her memories, now precious in their fragility.

It wasn’t a fight, Yachay realized. It was a ceremony with a name and a price. *Ablaze like vajra.* The magenta vaanar stood victorious, chest heaving.

Yet she failed to see manushyas'. She had to resist the urge to think of them as parasitic and insensitive toward others in their environment.

The itch behind the eyes. The restless muscles.

A million pitrukas would buy him a chhavi. A shadow in the grove.

Do you claim your debts are settled, and you'll earn your chhavi upon death?

If our three debts are paid, that is.

The first was the most immediate, the unravelling of the physical body that once formed a life, repurposed by other creatures, the tissue rinsed of all memory to store new ones.

Once, judges performed this ritual to acknowledge justice's price. Each shard of nail was a token of shared loss with the condemned. It was a quiet prayer that the cycles of crime and punishment would someday break too.

In Maya’s endless dreamscapes, they raced biomechanical marvels through phantom skies, fought drawn-out mythic battles, mastered forgotten arts from great masters, built and lost fortunes between breaths. Kshar had himself completed adventures spanning generations over a single evening’s tethering. For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

The naags flicked their tongues, gathering scents released by the tree that painted a picture unavailable to the others who saw only with light. A low hiss built among them, as if the outcome was already written in the air.

The nut sounded like the rakshasi shrieks they knew from Maya.

We’ve been training for it in the games. Especially Fruits of Fortitude.” “All you boys with your windup spring games.” Jiara laughed.

Spires, factories, and breathing pharmacies stood like game pieces on a vast board, strangely less real at this distance than in his countless Divya Maya dreams.

Spires, factories, and breathing pharmacies stood like game pieces on a vast board, strangely less real at this distance than in his countless Divya Maya dreams.

We’ve been training for it in the games. Especially Fruits of Fortitude.” “All you boys with your windup spring games.” Jiara laughed.

Do you claim your debts are settled, and you'll earn your chhavi upon death?

vaguely remember… friends and I… jumped in once… done in a few moments… blur now.” Chandru’s grip tightened on Viraat’s arm, his voice barely an audible whisper. “You owe the div… six rushikas… invested in you.” Viraat’s face paled, his hands shaking. “Where do I get…?” “Chandru, enough\\!” Tarkash’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and measured.

Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

Tarkash stepped forward, inserting himself between Ayn and the vaanar guards. "What seems to be the problem, Captain?" he inquired in fluent Seni, his tone deceptively light even as it carried an undercurrent of quiet authority. The vaanar captain's eyes narrowed momentarily.

Maya is my reality, greater than any other I have known.

Spires, factories, and breathing pharmacies stood like game pieces on a vast board, strangely less real at this distance than in his countless Divya Maya dreams.

We’ve been training for it in the games. Especially Fruits of Fortitude.” “All you boys with your windup spring games.” Jiara laughed.

The White Kulie parted his lips to answer, but Chandru scoffed. "Kulies don't have names. Does this latch or this seat have a name?"

What currents, unforeseen by any sliver of probability, could have brought such coin into the girl’s hand?

Moha, assisted by the fruitseller, distributed sunpears, palamps, and orbas to the gathered refugees.

What currents, unforeseen by any sliver of probability, could have brought such coin into the girl’s hand?

Moha, assisted by the fruitseller, distributed sunpears, palamps, and orbas to the gathered refugees.

“Where does the hukefe go?” Darib asked, holding up the spice-scented teahouse miniature. His fingertip traced a path across his sprawling replica of the Dhaara market district, each wooden block placed from Kshar’s descriptions, corrected nightly when the boy caught inconsistencies. His amputated tail-stump twitched, a phantom echo seeking its vanished limb.

How could he even consider defying his dying words again, those final instructions that carried the weight of a sacred vow? Do not tether to Maya till you reach the Trials, Daddu's directive had been clear. Had Daddu anticipated this temptation too, this agonising choice? Yachay stood frozen, torn between the promise of reclaiming what was irrevocably lost and the unknown price it might demand.

His fist closed around it. It felt heavier than a stone should, as if wielding it might crush something fragile within too.

Unable to tether and thus unable to participate, he was absolved of choice, of having to deny Daddu's dreams. He could journey with these almost-friends, carry their bags, assist them, belong–be part of something without being at the center of it.

each wooden block placed from Kshar's descriptions, corrected nightly when the boy caught inconsistencies.

They never understood that true surveillance lived in the eyes of their own loved ones.

Where there should have been disappointment, he found instead a curious lightness. Unable to tether and thus unable to participate, he was absolved of choice, of having to deny Daddu's dreams. He could journey with these almost-friends, carry their bags, assist them, belong–be part of something without being at the center of it. There was peace in being peripheral.

vaguely remember… friends and I… jumped in once… done in a few moments… blur now.” Chandru’s grip tightened on Viraat’s arm, his voice barely an audible whisper. “You owe the div… six rushikas… invested in you.” Viraat’s face paled, his hands shaking. “Where do I get…?” “Chandru, enough\\!” Tarkash’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and measured.

vaguely remember… friends and I… jumped in once… done in a few moments… blur now.” Chandru’s grip tightened on Viraat’s arm, his voice barely an audible whisper. “You owe the div… six rushikas… invested in you.” Viraat’s face paled, his hands shaking. “Where do I get…?” “Chandru, enough\\!” Tarkash’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and measured.

'This universe pulls itself apart, Parthiv. Every star dies, every design dissolves, every song scatters to silence. Yet here, in defiance of that great unmaking, we arose.'

Kshar had himself completed adventures spanning generations over a single evening's tethering.

"Lochak relays pressure but not texture," Darib said, running a fingertip along one bead. "These are sahsi nodes. From a kuhi-crab's antenna. They sense vibration through solid material." He looked up. "If I embed them along the spine, the stump might learn to feel what the tail touches."

“You are a nirmaya,” Daddu said.

Yachay was neither overwriting nor commanding. He was simply going where he wanted to go. His certainty was the strongest signal in the water. In a swarm built to seek, a single clear direction, bereft of noise, was something entirely new. Purpose itself, bare and unasking. The jalpari did not answer it, because it was not a question. They just went along, because swarms follow currents. The jalpari began to move.

In a swarm built to seek, a single clear direction, bereft of noise, was something entirely new. Purpose itself, bare and unasking. The jalpari did not answer it, because it was not a question. They just went along, because swarms follow currents.

'They paint a world of scarcity and inevitable conflict. Then offer you exclusive hope. Abundance, just for you. A secret deal like a jona-oil salesman. All you have to do is stay in line. Believe, "Their justice comes slow, yet certain. Till then, we shall keep our wrists busy." And thus, they make you mine their treasures, silence their skeptics—all while believing it's your own choice.'

“You are a nirmaya,” Daddu said.

Whoever named her era might have intended a harsh jest, Yachay thought. For every child knew the name of the dark age when Sheshan existed and eventually vanished. Sheshan Yug.

"They create stories about wealth and power, about how wonderful it is to have those things. They make games that teach you to fear those who are different, lest garudas and naags, manushyas and rakshasis ever come together.

"They paint a world of scarcity and inevitable conflict. Then offer you exclusive hope. Abundance, just for you. A secret deal like a jona-oil salesman. All you have to do is stay in line."

We were the vidhi-vidhaata*,* the authors of destiny.

“Then each nudge seems to necessitate another, an endless chain of adjustments and interventions—”

“No,” Hidamma said sharply.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible.

Council members exchanged wary glances. Niririn, the divya of Maya, interjected calmly. "Divya Maya calculations depend upon harnessing countless minds. The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost. Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible."

Yachay lunged to pull her free. His fingers brushed Ayn's skin before Daddu wrenched him back by the wrist and pinned him to the bars. Yachay twisted against the grip. Daddu stared at him and shook his head once. The swarm yanked Ayn out of reach.

The Great-Divya Jaya has abandoned her corporeal form and merged with Chaitanya, the eternal swarm.

Council members exchanged wary glances. Niririn, the divya of Maya, interjected calmly. "Divya Maya calculations depend upon harnessing countless minds. The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost. Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible."

A mycorrhizal tendril connected to his navel, his eyes fluttering closed as he merged with the root-network. ...Network's shared consciousness space—architecture bending into... that wouldn't have been physically tenable.

We were the vidhi-vidhaata, the authors of destiny.

“With their natural predator gone, the flitt population will multiply, unchecked. All of you know what happens next. The solitary insects will transform and become gregarious.” On-screen, the flitt morphed: wings enlarged, mandibles sharpened. “Driven by their swelling numbers,” Hidamma noted, “they'll transform into a swarming, locust phase.” She tugged an aerial root, the tendril snaking through her dorsal pouch’s opening.

“Matter exchanged hands,” Hidamma intoned, her voice carrying a hint of dark amusement, as if privy to a sinister secret.

”

“Khaasiya has its ways.” Tarkash echoed the mindless refrain. “Though, it should not,” he added, with regret.

Ayn studied him. “How did you find us?”

Tarkash chuckled. “The Divyas willed me to see you from across the hill. I am happy that you survived until I arrived. You were just… magnificent.”

“You have our gratitude,” Ayn said, and kept her tone level. She glanced at the window slit. Dusty light. Hard land rushi

“Then each nudge seems to necessitate another, an endless chain of adjustments and interventions—”

“No,” Hidamma said sharply.

# **VIDHI VIDHAATA**

## *“Life matters. Lives don’t.

# **VIDHI VIDHAATA**

## *“Life matters. Lives don’t.

If he jammed the axle, all that pent up tension would tear the wing free.

He searched frantically for something sturdy, for a loose tool, a metal bar, anything.

# **VIDHI VIDHAATA**

## *“Life matters. Lives don’t.

Four hundred to four hundred and twelve rakshasis will perish. A necessary sacrifice. Maya will mark them as enemies of the state to reduce rebellion risks in neighboring regions.

Once pruned, the future must grow on its own terms.”

Hidamma’s gaze swept the assembled divyas.

The lives of four hundred rakshasis against a hundred and fifty thousand manushyas hung in the balance of her decision.

The Great-Divya Jaya has abandoned her corporeal form and merged with Chaitanya, the eternal swarm.

The Great-Divya Jaya has abandoned her corporeal form and merged with Chaitanya, the eternal swarm.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

On one screen, a vaanar guard tossed Moha a coin. Another showed the rakshasi giving a rushika to the girl. In a third, Tarkash dropped a coin absentmindedly, which Moha picked up. On each one played a variation of a must-have-been, a might-have-been.

"Months of preparation," defended Aruna. "Raza valley and all other settlements marked as havens of crime and treason. But the nirmaya's actions have seeded doubt in the tale—"

"Our nudges shall be lighter than breath," Niririn replied. "We will privilege Maya dreams celebrating prosperity and peace. Families of vaanars will broadcast appeals against Khaasiya's 'terrorist.' Patrols will intensify naturally, driven by desire to avenge injured kin."

The two heads of the gandharva blinked alternatingly. "An elegant solution. Kalpaant stories will be ready by dawn, designed to inspire ancestral grief and communal shame. Especially potent for rakshasis living close to manushya-dominated lands."

Their second head concluded smoothly, "By Kalpaant, local rakshasi demand for wakati will peak, starving Khaasiya's resistance of its only weapon."

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

Council members exchanged wary glances. Niririn, the divya of Maya, interjected calmly. "Divya Maya calculations depend upon harnessing countless minds. The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost. Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible."

"We require a subtler nudge. The western travelers—the ones carrying thraak—prioritize cheaper routes. A minor toll increase of fifty pitrukas will divert these cost-conscious groups through Vayu. Others, less price-sensitive, will continue via the main route."

"Economically invigorated towns will expand southward in search of additional land and resources, displacing over three thousand rakshasis from the Nimba and Goro forests. Four hundred to four hundred and twelve rakshasis will perish. A necessary sacrifice. Maya will mark them as enemies of the state to reduce rebellion risks in neighboring regions."

"After reintroducing the thraak," Parthiv argued, "wouldn't we be compelled to make another intervention to avert the rakshasi displacement as well?"

Hidamma dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "We follow a principle of minimal intervention."

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

The Great-Divya Jaya has abandoned her corporeal form and merged with Chaitanya, the eternal swarm.

Kshar uncoiled his large tail, lowering it into the churning gears… When he found his voice again, it emerged light, unburdened.

Kshar uncoiled his large tail, lowering it into the churning gears… he twisted sharply, and wedged the thickest, most heavily plated section of his tail between two massive, interlocking gears.

Momentarily distracted by the winged fruit's slap, Yachay bumped into a vaanar guard at Khaasiya's toll gates. "Watch it!" The pink-furred vaanar shoved him back.

“By definition, Maya doesn’t know of his existence. Just as Divya Maya divines the future, so too it attempts to fill in its incomplete knowledge of the past. The failure was catastrophic, but you are not to blame for it.” Relief flickered across Kshar's hood. “I interrogated him,” Kshar said. “This Yachay.” Spores hissed out of Tiresia-Sanjay.

On one screen, a vaanar guard tossed Moha a coin. Another showed the rakshasi giving a rushika to the girl. In a third, Tarkash dropped a coin absentmindedly, which Moha picked up. On each one played a variation of a must-have-been, a might-have-been.

One head examines the participant while the other pulls up their chhavi from Maya to speed up verification. Otherwise, tethering everyone in would take an eternity.

“Maya cannot resolve what happened here.” Niririn’s voice sharpened. “It’s filling gaps with probable causes. What we’re seeing—or failing to see—is a nirmaya’s impact point.” Unease spread through the pavilion.

“Most of you will never find the nirmaya,” Sheshan said, her voice growing faint, “but your faith will ease their path in invisible ways.

“Is a dream an escape?” Sheshan gestured at the impossible feast.

Mikash's words echoed in Yachay's mind: They harbor enemies of the soil. His almost-friend's eyes had burned with conviction.

Sheshan’s words made sense. Too much sense. He wondered if this clarity was a sign of truth, or merely the seductive simplicity of a lie stitched together from half truths. *A lie, then,* he thought. *Truth couldn’t be this simple.* “The giving hand offers crumbs; its meager charity is celebrated in song and enshrined in prayer.

Sheshan Maya, they called them at the branch, named after Sheshan Yug, the dark ages they were invented in.

“Bit by bit, we let them rewrite us… stories become us. And therein lies their power.

# **SEVERE PUNISHMENT**

## *“To outsmart the hunter, become the forest.”* *— Sheshan, The First of the One-Eyed Turloth*

Yachay gasped awake.

The farther we peer down the river of time, the greater the cognitive cost.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most. Redirecting those Divya Maya hours away from pruning dangerous futures is not feasible.

“In a world woven from dreams, waking up is an act of great rebellion.

“But how do you fight an adversary who sees all, and is capable of molding the very fabric of what is to come? They can eliminate challengers before birth, nudging conditions to prevent their very existence.

“A spark ignites a flame. A flame starts a fire, a fire becomes an inferno. A chain reaction is beautiful, but even more so is the spark’s innocence.” A procession of a dozen ornate carriages wound its way through the market’s distant quarter.

We let stories refine our beliefs, repair our instincts. Bit by bit, we let them rewrite us… stories become us. And therein lies their power. For whoever controls the stories controls our dreams and nightmares, our very desires and fears. Their whispers become our will. They choose which instincts we feed, which hungers we starve. They control us all.

Every time you tether, you bare all, and open yourself to their influence.

They make games that teach you to fear those who are different, lest garudas and naags, manushyas and rakshasis ever come together.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

Right now, millions are tethering, immersed in Maya tales, timed carefully to provide spare mindspace when we require it most.

“They create stories about wealth and power, about how wonderful it is to have those things.

"That craving for a sweetmeal that seems to come from nowhere?" Sheshan's gaze swept over them. "And just as soon, a sweet-seller shows up at your doorstep?"

The recruits exchanged glances, in quiet recognition of the hidden pattern.

Sheshan turned to face each of them in turn. "That sudden unease around a neighbor you've known all your life?"

That’s why we trust stories, no?

“We let stories refine our beliefs, repair our instincts.

"These tales become our maps, our tej-trails, guiding us toward dreams, away from nightmares. That's why we trust stories, no?

"We let stories refine our beliefs, repair our instincts." She turned to look at Prabhakar. "Bit by bit, we let them rewrite us... stories become us. And therein lies their power. For whoever controls the stories controls our dreams and nightmares, our very desires and fears. Their whispers become our will."

Yachay's gaze turned inward. Who was he beneath all the stories that had shaped him? He pictured other versions of himself, molded by different tales. Petty, perhaps? Or power-hungry? He recoiled. But was this revulsion his true self speaking, or just another story?

He searched within himself but found no clear boundary separating nature from narrative. He was a living palimpsest, each tale etched over the last. Uniquely himself, yet entirely constructed. But by whom?

We let stories refine our beliefs, repair our instincts. Bit by bit, we let them rewrite us. Stories become us. And therein lies their power. For whoever controls the stories controls our dreams and nightmares, our very desires and fears.

We let stories refine our beliefs, repair our instincts. Bit by bit, we let them rewrite us. Stories become us. And therein lies their power. For whoever controls the stories controls our dreams and nightmares, our very desires and fears. Their whispers become our will.

They create stories about wealth and power... They make games that teach you to fear those who are different, lest garudas and naags, manushyas and rakshasis ever come together. They paint a world of scarcity and inevitable conflict. Then offer you exclusive hope.

For him, just as for every last person in the world, Maya was as natural as gravity, as necessary as bloodstream.

For whoever controls the stories controls our dreams and nightmares, our very desires and fears.

He slipped through a narrow gap between two shops with living, breathing walls. His thick serpentine tail pressed against the ground, steadying him as he rose upright upon it. Years of vertical posture had settled a dull ache into his spine where his torso became tail.

The games had rules beneath their rules. Yachay found them, whispered them.

The White Kulie parted his lips to answer, but Chandru scoffed. "Kulies don't have names. Does this latch or this seat have a name?"

“But. Me also have name.”

Tarkash’s beak twitched with amusement.

“A donation of over eight years of panchamrit,” the elderly garuda swiftly calculated.

“This morning my panchamrit dropped from seven days to three. With skandha shortages pushing prices higher, shouldn’t our mining dividends increase?”

“The two largest mining families, Yamuna Veer and Chakradhar, diluted emergency titles,” Aruna explained.

Ayn watched hiva-mites scurry across soft pink structures in the rakshasi waiting area at the baaradwar. The insects crafted architecture that flowed like frozen waves throughout the chamber—a stark contrast to the rigid vaanar grid beyond.

When she shifted, the seat adjusted beneath her, micropores releasing a faint, sweet musk. Above, brass dispensers pulsed timed pheromones, manipulating millions of hiva-mites into building seats, pods, and alcoves.

Kalpaant stories will be ready by dawn, designed to inspire ancestral grief and communal shame.

”

Parthiv, shaken yet composed, whispered, "This is certain?"

"As certain as Maya can foresee," Divyendra affirmed gently.

His consciousness entered Maya at will, in ways even the other divyas did not fully grasp.

”

Parthiv, shaken yet composed, whispered, "This is certain?"

"As certain as Maya can foresee," Divyendra affirmed gently.

Yachay was neither overwriting nor commanding. He was simply going where he wanted to go. His certainty was the strongest signal in the water. In a swarm built to seek, a single clear direction, bereft of noise, was something entirely new. Purpose itself, bare and unasking. The jalpari did not answer it, because it was not a question. They just went along, because swarms follow currents.

He was inside them and they were around him and the river was swallowing them all.

Everything ate and was eaten. Matter exchanged hands. This was the shape of life. ...It was never malice.

Foresight became direction.

For the first time ever, his mind was empty. So he built again.

her will had sat inside theirs like a fist inside a glove ...three questions ...His certainty was the strongest signal in the water... They just went along, because swarms follow currents

Everything ate and was eaten. Matter exchanged hands.

You see lives, Parthiv. I see life itself. Each consciousness is a transient song, atoms that learned to know themselves. The present generation sacrifices not for better futures but for the abstract principle of continuity. The Now feeds Tomorrow.

”

Parthiv, shaken yet composed, whispered, "This is certain?"

"As certain as Maya can foresee," Divyendra affirmed gently.

You see lives, Parthiv. I see life itself. Each consciousness in Neh is a transient song, a brief organization of atoms that learned to know itself.

He would not spend Daddu like a coin.

He said nothing.

Yachay was neither overwriting nor commanding. He was simply going where he wanted to go. His certainty was the strongest signal in the water. In a swarm built to seek, a single clear direction, bereft of noise, was something entirely new. Purpose itself, bare and unasking. The jalpari did not answer it, because it was not a question. They just went along, because swarms follow currents.

For the first time ever, his mind was empty. He'd expected darkness. He got clarity.

So he built again. He began with what he knew.

He was inside them and they were around him and the river was swallowing them all, and in that shared swallowing, the difference between mouth and food meant nothing.

Yachay was neither overwriting nor commanding. He was simply going where he wanted to go. His certainty was the strongest signal in the water. In a swarm built to seek, a single clear direction, bereft of noise, was something entirely new. Purpose itself, bare and unasking.

The gandharva wanted to impose a fine for late tethering. Maana managed to talk them down.

He would not spend Daddu like a coin.

He said nothing.