The silence in Vira's soul lasted only a heartbeat, but it was a revelation. It was the first true peace he had ever known. He stared at Mira, at the fierce, frightened girl who had, with a single touch, quieted the storm within him. He didn't understand it. This connection was a mystery more profound than any sacred text he had ever studied.
Mira, seeing the raw shock on his face, quickly pulled her hand back as if burned. The sudden loss of contact was a physical jolt to Vira, and the low, familiar hum of divine energy returned, a dull ache behind his eyes.
"We need to secure the grounds," she said, her voice regaining its practical, authoritative tone. She was back in her element: a crisis to be managed, a problem to be solved. "The injured must be tended to. The wards… what's left of them… must be reinforced."
Before Vira could respond, a new presence announced itself. It was not the slithering malice of the demons, but something else entirely: a clean, sharp, and dangerously zealous energy, like the edge of a freshly honed blade.
From the main gate, a group of figures emerged, moving with the disciplined, synchronized grace of a military unit. They wore the deep saffron robes of the Suryavanshi Paladins, a militant temple sect dedicated to purging demonic corruption through martial force. At their head walked a woman whose beauty was as severe and striking as a winter hawk's.
She was tall, with a warrior's posture, her long black hair tied back in a severe, intricate braid. Her eyes, a startlingly bright, intelligent brown, swept across the chaotic scene, missing nothing. She carried a pair of Chakrams—gleaming, ring-shaped throwing blades—at her hips, their edges glowing with a faint, holy light. This was Devika, Blade of the Sun Temple, a warrior-priestess whose piety was measured in the number of monsters she had slain.
Her gaze landed on the dissipating wisps of demonic essence, then on the terrified monks, and finally, it settled on Vira. She saw not a man, but a concentration of raw, untamed power. An anomaly. Her eyes narrowed.
"You," she called out, her voice clear and commanding, accustomed to instant obedience. "You reek of ozone and divine fire. What happened here? Who are you to wield such power?"
Vira met her gaze. He felt an instant, instinctual friction, a clash of two opposing forces. His power was a wild, untamed river; hers was a rigid, unyielding canal.
"There were demons," he said, his voice flat. "They are gone now."
Devika strode forward, her Paladins fanning out behind her, securing the perimeter with an efficiency that made Mira's efforts seem like a child's game. She stopped a few feet from Vira, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, assessing him like a weapon of unknown make.
"Gone because of you," she stated, not a question. She saw the scar on his forehead, a faint silver mark nearly hidden by his dark hair. A flicker of something—recognition? curiosity?—passed through her eyes. "Such power should not be wielded by an unsworn hermit. To what temple do you belong? Who is your master?"
"I serve the balance," Vira replied, his answer deliberately vague, as his masters had taught him.
Devika's lips thinned in disapproval. "The balance is maintained through order, discipline, and divine law—not through chaotic bursts of raw energy. You are a danger. An unsanctioned storm."
Her gaze then slid to Mira, who was trying to organize a group of acolytes to help the injured. Devika's expression, already severe, hardened into one of disdain. She saw a secular scholar, a girl of books and doubt, standing far too close to this nexus of holy power.
"And you," Devika said, her tone dripping with condescension. "The scholar with no faith. I have heard of you. They say you question the sacred verses. That you demand proof from the gods."
Mira straightened, her chin lifting in defiance. "I demand truth," she retorted, her voice clear and steady. "Something that seems to be in short supply."
Devika let out a short, sharp laugh devoid of humor. "The truth is that faith is a weapon. Doubt is a sickness. You are an infection in this holy place." She turned her sharp gaze back to Vira. "And you consort with her. It taints you."
The injustice of the accusation sparked a protective instinct in Vira. "She saved lives," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "While your Paladins were polishing their blades, she stood against the darkness with nothing but courage."
The air crackled. Devika's hand drifted down, resting on the hilt of one of her Chakrams. "Courage without faith is just glorified arrogance. I question your judgment, hermit. And I question your right to wield the power you do." She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, challenging murmur. "The prophecy speaks of a pure vessel, a warrior of unwavering purpose. Perhaps you require a lesson in true piety. A duel of divine rite. To see if your power is earned, or simply stolen."
It was a formal challenge, a sacred tradition among the martial orders. To refuse would be an admission of weakness or impurity.
Vira's jaw tightened. A duel was the last thing he wanted. It was a spectacle, a display of power that would draw the very attention he was meant to avoid. "My purpose is not to prove myself to you."
"Then you are a coward," Devika stated simply, her eyes flashing.
Before Vira could reply, Mira stepped between them. She faced Devika, her small frame seeming impossibly fragile before the warrior-priestess, yet her presence was unbending.
"He just saved this monastery," Mira said, her voice shaking with controlled fury. "And you arrive only to issue threats and insults? Is this the 'order' you represent? Arrogance and piety seem to be close companions in your sect."
Devika's eyes narrowed into slits. For a moment, it looked as if she might strike Mira. The sheer venom in her gaze was palpable. She saw Mira not just as a doubter, but as a rival, a corrupting influence on this mysterious, powerful man who should, by all rights, be aligned with her and her cause.
"You would do well to hold your tongue, little scribe," Devika hissed. "Some stains can only be cleansed with steel."
She held Mira's gaze for a long, venomous moment before turning her back on her, dismissing her as beneath contempt. Her focus returned entirely to Vira.
"I will be watching you, hermit," she said, her voice a promise. "The prophecy requires a pure vessel, not one tainted by worldly attachment." She gave Mira a final, withering look. "I will remove this distraction. For your own good."
With that, she signaled to her Paladins. They moved with chilling purpose, not to help the wounded monks, but to begin their own rituals of "purification," chanting loudly to cleanse the demonic taint, their actions a stark, public rebuke of Vira's "unclean" methods.
Vira watched them, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He felt the familiar pull of two warring instincts: the solitude his masters had ingrained in him, and a new, fierce, and utterly foreign urge to stay, to stand beside the brave, stubborn scholar who had somehow quieted the storm inside him, if only for a moment. The world, which had always been a simple matter of duty and survival, had just become dangerously, terrifyingly complex.