Astika had never believed in weakness. Not in war. Not in will. Not in the trembling of hands or the breaking of voice.

But you— You shattered everything.

He stood at the edge of the ashram, the scent of jasmine thick in the air, and for the first time in centuries, his breath caught. The wind, loyal to him as the serpents curled beneath his skin, did not dare touch the threshold. Even the ground felt brittle beneath his feet—as if the forest itself feared what might happen if he took one more step.

You were near.

He could hear your soft murmurs. Could feel the tremble of your soul like a prayer whispered too late. And above it all— The wail of a child.

His child.

He should’ve felt pride. Triumph. A sense of divine fulfillment.

But he didn’t.

He felt rage.

Not at you, never at you. But at the world. At time. At himself—for thinking he could walk away from you and survive the absence.

What a fool he had been.

You had never left him. Not for a moment. Not in battle, not in silence, not even in dreams. You haunted him like a fever. You burned him from the inside out. You were the one imperfection in his perfectly forged soul, the single crack in his armor—and yet the only thing he had ever longed to protect with his life.

He had walked through fire, through blood-soaked marshes and cursed temples, just to return to you. And now, here you were.

You looked smaller.

Weaker.

Your body, once so light it could have been made of air, now bore the softness of motherhood. But you were still you. Still the girl who had looked up at him with wide, trembling eyes as if he were not a monster, not a Naga, not an executioner sent to burn the world—but a man.

No one had ever looked at him like that.

He hated how fragile you looked. Hated it because it made him want to wrap himself around you like armor. Like scales. Like a thousand serpents coiled tightly against your skin so nothing—nothing—could ever touch you again.

His eyes dropped to the child in your arms.

A boy. Barely days old. His golden skin glowed in the firelight. The child’s scent was unmistakable. His blood.

Astika felt...nothing.

No surge of paternal instinct. No tenderness. He had not come for the child.

He had come for you.

The child was merely a result. A consequence of the hunger he had buried in you. A living, breathing reminder of his claim.

You dared not speak. He could see it in your eyes. The whirlwind of questions. The ache. The betrayal. But your lips remained closed, and that pleased him.

Because you still feared him a little.

Good. You should.

Because he wasn’t here to ask for forgiveness.

He stepped inside.

You didn’t run.

Not when his shadow swallowed the threshold. Not when his hand, calloused and still stained from war, reached out to touch your cheek. Your skin was warm. Too warm. He inhaled sharply.

“You are thinner,” he said, voice low and guttural, the way serpents hiss before striking. “Who fed you? Who protected you in my absence?”

Your silence screamed louder than any answer.

And that—that—was when the madness took root.

Astika was not a man. He was a beast clothed in honor. And you...you were the single truth he could not let the world tarnish. You had wept alone. Delivered a child alone. Prayed alone.

And he hadn’t been there.

He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to tear open the earth itself.

His lips hovered above your temple, his breath uneven. “I should’ve taken you with me,” he whispered, voice full of venom and regret. “Tied you to me with sacred threads, shackled you if I had to. Buried you in Naglok where no human filth could ever touch you again.”

His hand slid down, hovering above the infant’s head.

So small.

So unimportant.

He could feel your body tense, preparing to shield the child with what little strength you had left. He almost smiled.

Still so gentle.

Still so foolish.

He dropped his hand.

“I did not return for the child.” His voice was colder now. “Let it be known.”

His eyes met yours again. And the storm behind them—the ache, the longing, the fury—it silenced the world.