The crystal cave shimmered faintly, its jagged walls refracting a pale, eerie light. Prismatic hues danced across the smooth, crystalline floor, mingling with the ever-present shadows that clung to Lady Visha’ra like a second skin. She sat at a low, obsidian table etched with the grid-like pattern of a Chaturanga board, its squares glinting with threads of luminescent silver. Her long coiled serpentine tail fidgeted on the ground.
The game was mid-play. Tiny pieces carved from onyx and quartz, each etched with intricate designs, stood arrayed on the board. A sharp-tusked elephant poised beside a chariot, its wheels marked with runes. Pawns clustered near the center, seemingly insignificant yet holding the fragile line of defence. Visha’ra’s long fingers hovered over one of the quartz pawns, her touch light as a breath as she slid it forward.
Her gaze flicked to the crystal mirror on her right, its fractured surface casting fleeting images of Bhu-loka. Demon armies in crimson-stained fields; cities lay in ruin. Yet amidst the chaos, there was an anomaly, a fracture in her carefully laid plans.
“A small sacrifice,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the whisper of shadow against stone. “But sometimes the weak must be spent to protect the strong.”
“I believe the Cardinal Relic of the East may be protecting them,” Raktabija had told her during the raid of the Kailashan Monastery.
Visha’ra’s scaled brow furrowed, a flicker of anger crossing her face. She moved another piece, capturing an invisible opponent’s rook. Her displeasure echoed in her tone as she hissed,
“How did I allow this oversight? The Cardinal Relics… they should have been accounted for long ago.”
She rose from the board and slithered toward the mirror, her tail coiling beneath her as she leaned closer. The images sharpened, revealing the aftermath of Raktabija’s attack on the monastery. The array that had shielded it, stronger than anyone anticipated, had crumbled—but not before the monks escaped.
The Cardinal Relic of the East, whispered the thought in her mind.
“It masked their presence,” she murmured, her voice a blend of anger and reluctant admiration. “Even Raktabija’s Life-Siphoning Scimitar wasn’t enough to breach it in time.”
Her gaze darkened. The Cardinal Relics once tasked to guard the Bhu-loka, were long believed to have disappeared. If what Raktabija said was true then they could unravel the spread of eternal darkness she had so carefully cultivated.
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Her lips curled into a scowl as she recognized an uncomfortable possibility.
“Atisha,” she whispered, the name a blade across her thoughts.
Her mind conjured a memory, unbidden—a warrior clad in golden armour, her eyes fierce with determination, wielding the power of the relics. Atisha, the god of war, defender of the realms,and protector of the weak. Her weapons were hidden in Bhu-loka.
“How could I have missed this?”
Visha’ra clenched her clawed fingers. If Atisha recovered her weapons, her plans were at greater risk than she had imagined. Yet the mirror offered no trace of her.
“Why can’t I see you?” she murmured, a flicker of doubt breaking her composure.
A distant memory of the past suddenly came to her mind. The god of war was smiling kindly towards her. Atisha had bent to help her up. The details of the surroundings were fuzzy to Visha’ra, she could only remember, Atisha. Her eyes, sparkling, clear and giving. She remembered the warmth of Atisha’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” Atisha had been murmuring sweetly to her. “I’m here.”
The memory of Atisha’s kindness gnawed at the edges of Visha’ra’s mind. She shook her head, banishing the thought. Kindness was weakness. Kindness had no place in this war.
Her thoughts shifted to Svetavastra, the blind cultivator.
“Svetavastra,” she said, her voice dripping with suspicion.
Her tail uncoiled, slithering against the cool crystal floor as she paced. The cultivator’s presence unsettled her. Blind yet unwavering. Mortal yet wielding power that should have been beyond his grasp.
“How did a blind monk come to possess such strength?” she wondered aloud. The shadows whispered around her, feeding her unease. There was something more to him—something she couldn’t yet see.
Lady Visha’ra came to a halt, her hand brushing the smooth surface of a crystal spire. Her analytical mind raced, weighing her options. Raktabija had failed. The relics were slipping further from her grasp. Atisha’s absence was a troubling enigma, and Svetavastra was an anomaly she could not ignore.
“The serpent strikes when its prey is weakest,” she said softly, her tone measured. “Not before.”
Yet indirect manipulation would no longer suffice. She needed to act personally, to infiltrate the cracks in her enemies’ faith and shatter them from within.
The shadows around her surged as she reached into their depths. A shimmering vortex enveloped her, the darkness reshaping her form. Scales melted into smooth skin, her serpentine tail dissolving into long, graceful legs. Her body, now human, was adorned in a saree spun from midnight itself, her eyes glowing with a hypnotic allure.
She stepped toward the mirror, studying her reflection. Gone was the cold, reptilian visage; in its place was a figure of breathtaking beauty, radiant and disarming. Her lips curved into a dangerous smile.
“Svetavastra,” she murmured, her voice like silk, “no man can resist me.”
With a final glance at the chaturanga board, she placed the captured knight beside the board’s edge. “Sacrifices must be made,” she said, her tone light but edged with menace.
The crystal cave darkened as she turned toward the swirling shadows. Her form shimmered faintly, dissolving into darkness as she set her gambit in motion.