Svetavastra perched silently on a gnarled branch, his gaze following Aryaman and Himmat as they disappeared into the mist, their figures swallowed by the dense undergrowth. The leaves rustled faintly as a soft rain began to fall, soaking the earth below. Svetavastra remained motionless, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows of the tree.

His horse, restless pawed at the ground, snorting softly. It tossed its head as the first drops of rain splattered against its hide. Svetavastra, however, remained indifferent to the encroaching storm, his thoughts elsewhere. He conjured a spiritual barrier to protect the horse and himself from the rain.

A faint, disembodied voice broke through the rhythmic patter of raindrops.

"The prince is earnest," murmured the preta, its voice emanating from the bracer clasped around Svetavastra’s wrist.

Svetavastra responded with a noncommittal hum, his eyes never leaving the point where Aryaman had vanished. The rain intensified, drumming against the leaves.

The preta's voice, more insistent now, asked, "No-god God, can you let me out of the bracer for a bit? I long to stretch these spectral limbs. It has been so long."

Without a word, Svetavastra waved his hand over the bracer. The air shimmered, and the preta, invisible to the human eye, drifted out, hovering near his shoulder. It stretched, though its form remained unseen, with its make-believe arms.

“Thank you, No-god God,” it whispered, an odd sense of relief in its tone. It floated beside him.

“So, do we have a game plan?” the preta asked after a while, its voice laced with a curious blend of mischief and eagerness.

Svetavastra finally looked at it, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m surprised you could hold your tongue for so long.”

The preta chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

“You underestimate me, No-god God. I have been meditating, believe it or not, since the time you left me under that tree.”

“It’s progress,” Svetavastra acknowledged, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

“You think so?” the preta asked, a hint of childlike hope in its tone.

Svetavastra nodded, the rain now a steady downpour.

“The funny thing,” the preta mused, “is that as I meditated, the world’s noise faded away, like white noise, blending into the background until it was barely there.”

Svetavastra’s smile deepened, a rare warmth touching his otherwise inscrutable expression.

“What about your sensations?” He asked.

The preta’s form shimmered slightly, as if remembering the discomfort of its usual existence.

“I can manage them now,” it said with quiet pride. “But not for long if I’m not meditating. The extremes of heat and cold are still too much. I can’t fully immerse in the present without being overwhelmed.”

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“Keep meditating,” Svetavastra advised. “You’ll get there.”

The preta sighed, its voice tinged with a primal longing.

“When will I be liberated from this, No-god God? I seek more than fleeting solace—I want freedom from this eternal torment,” it said.

“You’ll have to wait longer,” Svetavastra said, his voice soft but firm.

The preta let out a low, mournful sigh.

“All I do is wait, No-god God. I wait,” it said.

For a time, they sat together in silence, the rain filling the void between them. It was a companionable silence, though heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“You distracted me,” the preta suddenly said, as if remembering its original purpose. “Did you do that on purpose, No-god God?”

Svetavastra’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.

“Did I?” he asked.

The preta huffed, a sound like wind through empty branches.

“I bet you did. So, do we have a plan, or are we being self-sacrificial again?”

Svetavastra chuckled, the sound rare and almost forgotten.

“You’ve grown rather irreverent,” he said.

“And the No-god God still avoids answering me,” the preta quipped, floating closer.

“I need more information,” Svetavastra said finally, his tone serious. “The plans I have made with Aryaman are defensive. But to win against the demon lord, Raktabija, I need to take the offensive.”

“Is it true that he cannot be slayed by gods?” said the preta.

“Possible,” said Svetavastra. “From what I know, he did a severe penance to gain the boon that makes him invincible.”

The preta, intrigued, tilted its make-believe head.

“What is this severe penance?” asked the preta. “Can I also do it?”

“If you show enough resolve, why not,” Svetavastra said, his voice steady and deliberate. “But you must understand, Raktabija's penance was no ordinary act. Among other things, he performed the Penitence of the Five Fires—a form of penance where one meditates surrounded by four blazing fires, each aligned with the cardinal directions, while the sun scorches from above. The heat is unbearable, the suffering unimaginable. It takes a will of iron and an unyielding spirit to endure such torment.”

The preta, unable to contain itself, interjected, “I experience the extremities too! The burning heat, the freezing cold—it's endless!”

“You feel the discomfort of existence, yes,” he acknowledged, “but what you experience is a mere flicker compared to the inferno Raktabija embraced. He endured this torment for a thousand years, unwavering in his resolve, his body and soul slowly being tempered by the flames of his own will.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“The heat you feel is a torment, yes, but it is born of your restless spirit, a punishment for past sins. Raktabija’s suffering was chosen, deliberate—a means to ascend, to gain power beyond mortal understanding. While you writhe in pain, seeking an end, he sought only to endure, to transcend his mortal limits. His penance was a path to attain invincibility; yours is the consequence of a restless, unfulfilled soul.”

The preta fell silent, the depth of Raktabija’s suffering and the stark difference between their fates now painfully clear.

“He did it for a thousand years,” Svetavastra repeated, his voice softening just slightly. “Not as a curse, but as a choice. What you suffer in mere moments, he sustained for millennia, each second a conscious choice to continue, to embrace the fire instead of fleeing from it.”

“If you were given such a choice,” said Svetavastra. “Would you choose it?”

The preta became silent, unsure and uncertain.

“I….don’t know,” it said. “I don’t think I would do it.”

“That’s alright,” said Svetavastra. “Not everyone needs to go to such extreme lengths. Raktabija is a formidable opponent not because of his invincibility but more so because of his indomitable will.”

“How would we defeat such an enemy, No-god God?” the preta asked.

The rain had ceased. Svetavastra’s gaze drifted to the rain-soaked earth below.

“I need to recover some of my memories first,” he said as he jumped down from the tree, landing softly on the wet ground.