Morning came gently, as though nothing in the world had shifted.
Asoka awoke to the pale light filtering through the small window of her room, the familiar sounds of the village already stirring—footsteps on packed earth, distant voices, the faint clatter of wood and metal. For a brief, fragile moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, her breathing slow and steady.
It was only a dream, she told herself.
She rose before the thought could unravel. She washed, dressed, and went about her usual tasks with practiced ease—tidying the small space she lived in, preparing her tools, arranging fabrics she would later work on. Her hands moved automatically, guided by routine rather than thought.
And for a while, it worked.
The dream stayed buried somewhere beneath the surface of her mind, muffled and indistinct, like a voice heard underwater. Each time its image threatened to rise—the darkness, the eyes, the weight of something unseen watching her—she pushed it down.
Everything is fine.
She repeated the words until they sounded convincing.
Still, a faint uneasiness lingered, coiling quietly in her chest. She knew it for what it was: a lie she had learned to tell herself long ago. But lies, she had learned, could be useful. They allowed her to breathe. To move forward.
By midday, she had decided not to think any further about it.
Eliza would be leaving in two days.
The thought alone was enough to pull her fully into the present.
Eliza's wedding had been decided swiftly—too swiftly, in Asoka's opinion. There would be no ceremony in the village, no long celebration among familiar faces. Tradition dictated that Eliza would be wed on her husband's land, far from the hills and trees they had grown up among.
Asoka had felt the disappointment settle quietly between them when Eliza told her.
Still, she had smiled.
"I convinced my mother to let you come with me today," Eliza had said that morning, fastening her hair with deliberate care. "I need help choosing what to take."
Asoka lifted an eyebrow. "Help? Or approval?"
Eliza scoffed lightly. "Both."
They walked together through the village paths, the sun warm against their backs. Eliza spoke excitedly of fabrics and colors, of what would be appropriate for her new home. Asoka listened, offering the occasional nod or comment, content simply to be there.
"I still can't believe it," Asoka said at last. "You're really leaving."
Eliza glanced at her, her smile softening. "It's an opportunity, Asoka. My father says I'd be foolish to refuse."
"I know," Asoka replied. And she did. That didn't make it easier.
The textile shop stood near the center of the village, larger and more refined than most other buildings. Inside, bolts of fabric lined the walls—silks, linens, richly dyed cloths that caught the light.
Asoka slowed the moment she stepped in.
"These are…" she trailed off.
"Expensive?" Eliza finished, amused.
Asoka nodded. "Very."
Eliza laughed softly. "You forget. Being the grand daughter of an elder has its advantages."
An attendant approached them—a tall man with sharp eyes and a practiced smile. "May I help you?"
Eliza gestured to the walls. "Show me what would suit travel. And ceremony."
The man obliged, pulling down one fabric after another, draping them over Eliza's arms, holding some up against her frame. Eliza examined each with a critical eye, her fingers testing texture, her expression thoughtful.
"No," she said after a moment, handing one back. "Too stiff."
Asoka watched, amused. "You know," she said lightly, "from a distance, no one would guess how picky you are."
Eliza shot her a look. "I have standards."
"You have impossible standards," Asoka corrected.
Eliza laughed and, without warning, thrust a deep blue fabric into Asoka's hands. "Here. Try this."
Asoka blinked. "Eliza—"
"Just try."
Reluctantly, Asoka held it up. The attendant nodded approvingly. "It suits her."
Eliza smiled brightly. "See?"
Asoka looked away, embarrassed. "I don't need new clothes, I already have enough"
"That's not the point," Eliza said gently. "I want this moment. With you."
The words settled quietly between them. Asoka felt something tighten in her chest—but it wasn't unpleasant.
She smiled. "Alright."
They spent longer than Asoka expected in the shop, laughing, debating, dismissing fabric after fabric. For a while, Asoka forgot entirely about the dream, about the unease that had followed her since morning.
It was only when she stepped away from Eliza—momentarily distracted by a folded display—that she noticed it.
A picture frame hung on the wall near a narrow corridor leading deeper into the shop.
It was simple. Unadorned.
And wrong.
Asoka felt it before she fully saw it—a subtle pull, like her breath catching without reason. She moved closer, her gaze drawn to the image within.
The figure depicted was… not quite human.
Its skin was pale—unnaturally so, like stone bleached by centuries of darkness. Long, dark hair fell forward, obscuring most of its face. But not all.
The eyes.
Asoka's breath stilled.
They were barely visible, shadowed beneath the curtain of hair, yet she could sense them—watching, aware. They held a depth that unsettled her, as though they looked not outward, but inward.
She did not realize how long she had been standing there until the attendant spoke.
"That painting draws many eyes."
She turned sharply. "What is it?"
The man followed her gaze. "A mythical god," he said evenly. "Often called the Bringer of Death and Suffering."
Eliza made a face. "That's… comforting."
The attendant continued. "The shop's owner brought it from a nearby town, although it was originally made outside the empire. He found it... mesmerizing."
"As did the artist?" Asoka asked quietly.
The man hesitated. "The painting was inspired by the artist's own thoughts, they said he had some brain problem of some sort because he always saw and spoke things that others couldn't understand, He died a few weeks after completing it."
Eliza shuddered. "Why keep it here? It could scare customers away."
The attendant only shrugged. "Some believe it brings insight. Others believe it brings misfortune."
Asoka looked back at the painting.
For the first time since waking, the unease returned—sharper now, more insistent.
She stepped away. "Come on," she said, forcing lightness into her voice. "You still haven't chosen."
Eliza nodded, eager to leave the corridor behind.
The rest of the day passed without incident. They made their purchases, finalized choices, and walked home as the sun dipped low. Eliza chatted about her journey ahead, her voice bright.
Asoka listened.
But her thoughts drifted.
That night, as she lay awake, the image of the painting rose unbidden in her mind—its eyes echoing something from her dream. Something she had tried so hard to forget.
She exhaled slowly.
I can't ignore this.
By morning, her decision was made.
The next day, she would seek out Soha.
And she would finally tell her the dream.