"The library," I said. "The books, the artefacts, the letters — they need to be protected. If anyone else finds them, the army will destroy them."
"Agreed. That's the first mission. Secure the library. Catalogue it. Begin the work of translating the full archive." She paused. "I have people. Not many. A network I've built over twenty years — soldiers, scholars, a few administrators in the lower ministries. People who've seen enough to doubt, even if they haven't found the library. I call them the Smoke."
"The Smoke?"
"Where there's smoke, there's a fire someone's trying to hide."
I almost laughed. It was the first time in months I'd felt anything that resembled humor.
"One more thing," Dhara said, pulling a second paper from her jacket. "This arrived three days ago from the Outer Territories. From the Remnant's leadership."
It was a letter. Written in Asura script — which Dhara could read and, now, so could I. The handwriting was sharp, precise, urgent.
"Commander Dhara — the Deva High Council has approved an expedition into the Naraka Wastes. They are calling it an 'archaeological survey.' We both know what it is. If they find the archives, three hundred years of preserved history will be destroyed. We need someone on the inside. We need a bridge. Time is running out."
The letter was signed with a name and a title:
"Kritya, daughter of Vritra. Commander of the Asura Remnant."
Vritra. The Asura general who'd fought Indra himself in single combat — the most famous battle in Deva history, presented as the triumph of the thunder god over the serpent demon. Indra's greatest victory.
And his daughter was alive. Leading the survivors.
"When do I leave?" I asked.
Dhara almost smiled. Almost.
"Tonight."
I packed my satchel. I left the Codex — Dhara would protect it. I took one thing from my quarters that I hadn't brought from the library: my mother's cleaning cloth, the one she used to scrub the walls of the Hall of Remembrance. She'd given it to me when I enlisted, as a good luck charm.
The irony was perfect. I was going to help dismantle the very history she'd spent her life polishing.
I walked out of Amaravati at dusk, heading east, toward the Wastes and beyond them. Behind me, the white city glowed in the last light, magnificent and false.
Ahead of me, the darkness. The real darkness — not the metaphorical darkness of Deva scripture, but the literal darkness of unknown territory, where a buried civilisation was waiting to be heard.
I chose the darkness. Not because I was brave, but because the light had been lying to me, and I'd rather walk blind in truth than see clearly in a lie.
