In front of Kian stood—

  No.

  Existed—three dudes.

  Except they weren’t dudes. Not really. Just shaped that way, for Kian’s comfort

  Kian didn’t need introductions.

  The Aspects.

  Preserver. Destroyer. Creator.

  Most people would’ve dropped to their knees, weeping or worshipping or both. But Kian just stood there, arms folded, expression flat.

  Annoyed.

  “So what do you want?” he said, crossing his arms tighter.

  The one in the middle—radiant, still, somehow realer than everything else—tilted his head. One eyebrow arched ever so slightly.

  We do not want. We are above such frivolities.

  The words didn’t come from his mouth. He didn’t even move.

  Kian just understood.

  “Uh-huh. Sure. But you dragged me here, which means you need something.”

  He pointed at the mark etched into his arm—glowing threads of gold and silver wrapped around his skin like vines of divinity.

  The figure on the right spoke next—his form rippling with warmth and color, voice like wind through a temple.

  Child of Balance. You are aware of Vikarma.

  Kian’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Big karma monster with bad vibes and worse timing. Attacked me. Emotion stepped in.”

  We know.

  “Right. Of course. Omniscient beings,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

  That seemed to amuse them.

  But the stars above flickered, just a little. Something vast and wrong stirred beyond the veil of space.

  The one on the left stepped forward, black-robed and sharp-eyed, his voice heavier, like it cut through the stillness.

  Child. Time is not a comfort we enjoy. Vikarma senses this communion. He comes.

  “Lovely,” Kian muttered. “So what now? You giving me a divine sword? Fancy new god-powers? “

  No, the center Aspect replied.

  You already carry Emotion’s gift. We will not overshadow it.

  That made Kian pause.

  “…So?”

  We offer something subtler. But no less important.

  Not strength. Not clarity. But space.

  Kian frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  The Preserver raised a hand toward his arm. The mark pulsed, light shifting at its edge—a third hue now danced across it, a shimmer not quite color, not quite light.

  The mark anchors you to balance. But balance must move to survive.

  So we grant you space. The room to act. To move, without tipping the scales.

  We lighten your karmic weight

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You What?”

  The Destroyer’s voice burned low, restrained.

  Your actions will echo less. The scales will not tip so easily by your hand.

  This is not freedom from consequence, added the Creator, but freedom to act without backlash.

  “So I can make decisions now, without disrupting my Karmic balance.”

  Yes, they said as one.

  Great.

  More complications to deal with.

  For now. Choose wisely, Child of Balance.

  A tremor shook the field. Light shattered across the stars.

  He is here.

  And then—

  Light.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Kian jolted upright. Gasping for breath

  All he got was dirty prison air.

  Stone walls. Iron bars. Dim torchlight.

  Back in the cell.

  Agatha lay crumpled against the far wall, her black robes still smoking faintly. Zeyk crouched nearby, eyes wide, staring at her like she might leap up and explode.

  “What…?” Kian started, his voice raspy. “How long was I out?”

  Zeyk didn’t look at him. Just blinked once, slowly, like trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  “You weren’t,” he said finally. “You fainted. Then stood up five seconds later.”

  Kian frowned, rubbing his temples. “Really? I spent, like, fifteen minutes chatting with cosmic gods.”

  Zeyk pointed towards Agatha. “ Guess they drop kicked her the way out.”

  Kian stared. “Is she breathing?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  A groan from Agatha proved the point.

  Zeyk backed up. “Okay, great! What do we do with her?”

  “I don’t know!” Kian hissed, gesturing wildly. “I was in a divine trance, not a strategy meeting!”

  They both looked down at her again.

  Still unconscious. Still terrifying.

  Zeyk scratched his head. “We run?”

  Kian nodded. “We run.”

  Zeyk yanked open the cell door—Agatha must’ve left it unlocked in the chaos—and darted out into the dim corridor.

  Kian followed, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  Zeyk glanced back, eyes wide. “Run where?!”

  “I don’t know!!” Kian snapped. “Away! From scary torture lady!”

  Behind them, Agatha groaned again.

  That was enough motivation.

  They bolted down the hall—bare feet slapping against cold stone—dodging shadows and praying no guards turned the corner.

  Zeyk puffed beside him. “This is your plan?!”

  “It’s not a plan, I’m winging it!”

  “ Remember what she said? Archers will shoot first think later.” Zeyk said exhasperated.

  Their footsteps echoed as they ran—wild, panicked, half-formed plans dying in their throats with every turn they took.

  And then—a click.

  A tile just ahead shifted with a hiss of hidden mechanics, parting like a secret door in the floor.

  A masked figure crouched below, hand outstretched. “Come. Now.”

  Zeyk skidded to a halt. “What the hell—?”

  But Kian didn’t stop fast enough.

  His foot caught the edge of the open tile, and with a surprised oof, he tumbled forward—face-first into the stone.

  “KI—!”

  Thud.

  Zeyk swore and grabbed him by the arms. “Not now, not now, you dramatic idiot—!”

  The masked figure reached up to help. Together, they dragged Kian’s limp body into the hidden passage, disappearing into the dark just as the sound of boots echoed down the hall behind them.

  The tile slid shut.

  Silence above.

  Darkness below.

  Zeyk panted in the dim glow of the passage, staring down at Kian’s unconscious face.

  “Seriously,” he muttered, brushing sweaty hair out of his own eyes, “you have the worst timing.”