The Mask of Sanity

The dust settled. In the wreckage, the contractor stood holding a comet — actual, impossible, burning cold light cradled in one hand like it weighed nothing.

Harshal's mouth went dry. "Fuck."

The contractor threw it.

Harshal erupted backward off the floating rune-carved platform, the impact tearing through him before he even registered the shape of the blow — then nothing.

He woke in Sonitapura. Meera was on the floor near the bed, hugging one of his hands to her chest like she hadn't let go since he'd gone under.

His eyes opened.

Chitralekha leaned into view. "Are you okay?"

Harshal grunted, pulling his hand free. He reached over and patted Meera's face. "Meera. Wake up."

She stirred as he sat up straight, breathing heavy. "Hey, sister."

Meera sat up beside him, blinking the sleep off.

"Are you okay, brother?" Chitralekha asked again.

"Yeah. I'm fine." He swung his legs off the bed. "Physically, great." A beat. "Heartbroken."

He got up, crossing to where his coat hung. "He took my fucking sword. Now I can't beat him."

"If you need training," Chitralekha said, "we've got a mission for you."

"Just skip the part where this is supposed to help me." He pulled the coat on. "Tell me what you need."

"There's a mercenary group trying to capture your kingdom," Chitralekha said. "They attack in large numbers — clothes like yours, but black."

"Yeah, I know them." Harshal's jaw set. "My old company." He paused. "So, how much?"

"What?"

"Money. How much are you paying me?"

Chitralekha stared at him. "You're this kingdom's aide. You're our beloved minister."

"Okay, stop." He waved it off. "I'll get it done. For free."

He moved toward the window, then called over his shoulder, "Copy."

The blade lying on the sofa flew to his hand.

He jumped through the window and fell.

Meera bolted upright, running toward it — but then wings unfurled, and he leveled out into flight.

"See," Chitralekha said, tired. "I said he'd be fine."

Meera stayed at the window, watching him go. "Miss Chitralekha. Do you ever worry about your brother?"

"Yeah. I did." A pause. "When he chose you as his girlfriend."

Meera turned. "No — I mean, when he's fighting someone."

"No." Chitralekha shrugged. "When he was fighting Odin, I did. But that bastard survives every time."

"Huh." Meera frowned. "But he's not immortal."

"Yeah. He's not." Chitralekha picked up a water jug, filling two golden glasses. "Which is why I'd suggest you train. Get stronger. So you don't need his protection."

"Yeah." Meera took the glass she was handed. "I need to become independent. But — who's going to train me?"

"Don't worry." Chitralekha took a drink from her own glass. "I can teach you."

Meera blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." Chitralekha shrugged again. "Why not."             

Harshal came to a stop deep in an unfamiliar jungle, the canopy pressing close overhead after what felt like a long, directionless walk. He pressed a hand flat against the nearest tree.

The bark shifted under his palm, grain scanning across his skin in a slow pulse of light, and a voice rose out of it — old, wise, unmistakably mechanical beneath the warmth. "Hello, old troop captain."

"Hello," Harshal said, tired down to his bones.

The jungle folded away.

He was standing in the base a heartbeat later, and the sheer wrongness of it hit him before anything else did. "I am so not used to this."

He started forward in his white coat, boots echoing off polished floor. Two guards stepped into his path.

"Sir, we can't let you in."

Harshal looked between them. "You're new here, right?"

"So what?"

He unsheathed his blade in one motion and cut them both down clean, continuing forward without breaking stride, the corridor opening ahead of him exactly as it had in every memory he still carried of this place.

People noticed him almost immediately — heads turning, voices rising, a ripple moving down the hall ahead of him. A crowd gathered fast, pressing in from both sides.

His hand found his sword on instinct, and the crowd pushed back at once, hands up.

"Sir, please — we just want an autograph."

He let out a slow breath and sheathed the blade. "Okay. Fine."

Phones came up. People leaned in close for selfies, laughing, calling his name, shoving pens and scraps of paper toward him for a signature. He gave them one after another, patient, almost gentle about it.

"Thanks, sir!"

"Sure," Harshal said. A beat. "Sorry."

A dense black aura rolled off his blade, spreading through the corridor like smoke finding every corner of a room at once. By the time it settled, he made certain — carefully, completely — that no one standing around him was still breathing.