Chapter Text
Warning(s): G, none
Perhaps he was a statue that had become overgrown, tendrils of vines and orchids crawling over him in a cloak of verdure. The young Al-Haytham would wonder if he was stone, too heavy and immobile to be taken back into the earth. The pungent ground always smelt like the aftermath of rain, earthy and fresh. The patter of it upon the wide brims of the leaves above sheltered him, but his eyes remained sealed shut. Instead, the young Akkadian focused intently on the Prāṇa-Bindu of his own body: the articulation of his limbs, his controlled breathing, the humid exhalations that ghosted the bronzy flesh near his face he lay upon like a pillow, his body heat, his—
Hastily, before he could allow himself to sink too deeply into sleep, Al-Haytham signed the Abhaya Mudrā—a closed, flat palm extended before him that dispelled the cocoon of subconsciousness. Awakening from deep sleep was disorienting to humans, but quickly did he collect himself, banishing fatigue, accrued hunger, stiffness; all the trivialities that wouldn’t serve him upon waking, his Guru had said. They would be rid of collectively, not in a mad scramble like the swish of horsehair scattering a swarm of upset, frenzied flies, he thought amusedly to himself.
Cradled within the arms of but one of the many extensions of the Kalpavriksha, the Divine Tree, the rough, ultraviolet texture that glowed inner cobalt did little to scratch his skin through such a deep stasis. Tresses of moon silver with undertones of pale jade spilled over the boy’s slender shoulders, his khaftān littered with feathery tufts of pappus from the bromeliads that clung to the enormous trunks. With radiuses wide enough to hide a small temple, the flora was equally as expansive and luminescent as the trees themselves in the domain almost perpetually swathed in a cool twilight. Long, sharp ears could hear the fauna of the forest, of the Devas in their beginning repast.
“I was beginning to wonder where you’d gone, Jāta.”
Al-Haytham wheeled sharply to the sound of tingling bells at the ankles of the Archon, the deep copper of her features lifted in amusement. Plum lips tugged into a serene smile, the jingling of intricate ornamentation that adorned her person enough to cause the young boy’s trapezoidal eyes to shift towards hers that housed every hue of green, enchanting to all who set their sights on the Lord of Verdure.
“Why wasn’t I able to hear you, Sayyidah?” he asked with utter innocence, and Rukkhadevatā gathered her skirts beneath her to sit on her haunches, ensuring her sari wouldn’t become too rumpled. The young boy doubted her ivory and green garments could become stained by the petrichor.
“Come here, and I’ll show you,” she instructed while the determined little boy gazed at her with wide eyes; a gaze she remembered and missed dearly from the days of the Archon War.
Utterly puerile, he watched as the mehndi that adorned her hands to the elbow began glowing, maṇḍalas of vines and other flora blooming from the ground. The mossy underbrush glowed in response, even though Gandharvangara was always luminous in places where light did not reach and when the night came long and starry. From it did a patch of Padisarahs bloom, but every child in the Phantasmal City knew these were not the same that had flourished in the time of the Lord of Flowers. Still, as she encouraged him to touch them, he couldn’t help but be awed by the vernal power of Dendro that coursed through them.
“We are Mantriks, Jatā. It’s not enough to simply know your mudrās and say your mantra; you have to connect with the world around you. All of the knowledge in the world won’t be enough if you cannot do this,” Rukkhadevatā explained enigmatically, a refulgence present in both their eyes as the young elf ruminated her words.
“I have to connect to the world around me… even without a Vision?” Al-Haytham queried of her, and the Archon smiled indulgently, if sadly. “I already do this. I did it when I woke up and in our other lessons.”
As a student of the Vihāra, becoming a Mantrik meant being able to influence the world around you. Yet, as the Gurus all said, it wasn’t bending reality to their will, but to work with it like a partnership. Al-Haytham had been personally tutored by Rukkhadevatā for as long as he could remember, his parents close retainers that were more like her children than simple servants.
Aisha, his mother, was an Akkadian elf from the portside city of Orghana. Although born within a family of one of the fishing guilds, her father had died when she’d been young, her mother nowhere to be found, and she’d been forced to fend for herself in her teens. Yet, when she’d been considered a young adult in her elfin years, eking out a living as a bushwoman in the Dharma Forest, Rukkhadevatā had saved her life after nearly dying. As recompense, Aisha had been loyal ever since and one of the Archon’s closest retainers.
His father, Ahriman, was a resident of Gurabad and also of the Akkadian race. Unlike Aisha, he’d been born into nobility in the fabric of Gurabad’s society and a prolific businessman and lawmaker at the height of the prestige of the Seven Cities. Like Aisha, he came into Rukkhadevatā’s court as a consul and legal aide, a retainer as loyal to her as his mother. The two had met, fallen in love, and produced a son, Al-Haytham. Not his full name, true, but it was what most came to call him nonetheless.
Because of this union and closeness to their Archon, Al-Haytham had grown as a child of the court, the Archon’s page despite seeming to be anything but. One might think they were more part of a royal family than her retinue for the fondness she showed them, but it was a good life for all of them.
“You don’t understand yet, Jatā, nor should you be expected to. You’re still very young,” Rukkhadevatā replied with an amused lilt in her voice, but it simply left Al-Haytham confused. The pucker to his brow was soothed when she caressed a hand through his silvery locks, shying away as only a child could from her affections. But, it wasn’t from scorn or some sense of childish humiliation, for who would be anything but blessed under such close attentions of the Dendro Archon who showed this child such favor?
“Your Majesty.” The deep, maundering rumble of the Lord of the Forests, Vyāghara, addressed while having approached with peerless soundlessness. Rukkhadevatā rose from her crouch and the young Akkadian stood at her side, bowing respectfully to the white tiger that stood taller than the height of two men. “You’re needed within the palace. Envoys from Enkanomiya have arrived and they say it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” Worry creased her bronzy features, elfin ears lowered in suspicion. “Thank you, Lord Vyāghara. Won’t you look after him? Maybe General Khara and the other Rākṣasas will want to look after him for the day.”
“My Mahārajā—“ Yet, the great feline was cut short when she dissolved into the bark of a tree, passing through the gnarled texture as though it were a portal. Vyāghara sighed but said nothing else after her in protest. “Jatā, come. Climb astride me, or else I’ll leave you behind.”
Al-Haytham needed no further encouragement as the youth clambered from a tall foreleg to the slope of Vyāghara’s shoulders, climbing astride as though the Lord of the Forests were his steed. Not that he’d ever say so aloud, of course. A speck of silver against a hide of ivory, it was as though he were the silver lining to a cloud.
Vyāghara lumbered quietly through the vivid underbrush, trampled beneath his massive paws, dappled sunlight filtering through the treetops to wash them in the odd beam of misty sunlight. “Our Mahārajā tells me you’ve been improving as a Mantrik. And to think, you’ve taken this long—”
“Why are there envoys from Enkanomiya? I thought—”
“And what did you think? That our Archon cannot handle herself? You forget yourself. The Mahārajā is the Avatar of Irminsul and must extend herself beyond our borders or even Celestia’s politics. Even if I doubt you understand either,” Vyāghara sneered at the boy; though they weren’t facing each other, Al-Haytham could imagine how Vyāghara bared his black lips and wicked fangs in a grimace. Though it caused a rush of shame, he made certain the other couldn’t feel it in the way tiny hands gripped his fur.
“…I’m sorry.”
“You’re young, Jatā. Do you distrust the Mahārajā that much?”
Al-Haytham mulled over the question, pushing aside the childish feeling of shame. The Akkadians were taught not to doubt their feelings, but to dissect them. Though they could easily staunch the sadness of a tear or the tremor of fear, they were taught to ask why. To examine it lest someone else see it as a vulnerability to exploit then, or at a later time.
“A lot of civilizations exist in the world, Sayyidi. Many of them have fallen for reasons we don’t understand, but… most of them are human. Were human. And did things to defy the Heavenly Principles that led to their destruction.”
Vyāghara’s gait slowed before he exhaled a great sigh, rib cage expanding. He continued his path, sunlight becoming constricted by the weaving of thick vines interlacing the canopy.
“And have we done anything to defy the Heavenly Principles?” Vyaghara challenged loftily. “Those of us here, in Gandharvanagara, who are loyal to the Mahārajā and her precepts?”
“The gods haven’t seen fit to punish us, no…” Al-Haytham answered slowly, gingerly. Vyāghara snorted derisively, giving a great shake of his head as if to dispel a swarm of flies.
A wild, joyful whoop sounded through the umbrage as Al-Haytham marveled at the sight of Viridescent vaulting between branches and using vines like rope, the huntress in her colorful lungi—a type of sarong—gripped a vine in her carefree plunge to the underbrush, leaping to land adroitly on Vyāghara’s back as the feline uttered a suffering sigh.
“Namaste!” she greeted energetically before plopping on crossed legs to ruffle Al-Haytham’s hair, the boy petulantly swatting her sisterly affections away. “Oh, such a serious conversation you two are having. Was I interrupting?” The huntress brushes aside her long, mousy brown hair with its streaks of jade that was kept within a tidy braid entwined with leaves and other baubles from the forest.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Vyāghara spoke to his young ward, the human’s coppery features conveying a dubious look. “Tell me, how have your patrols been within the Dharma Forest?”
The huntress’ shoulders slouched, gripping the bowstring of her Hunter’s Path with a furrowed brow. “Guraḥ, there have been instances of the Withering. We’ve been able to combat it, but I fear even my Dendro Vision isn’t enough,” Viridescent reported on an anxious note, and Vyāghara’s pace resumed as though to vent his agitated thoughts. “I overheard you. Maybe little Ḥassān here is right to be worried.”
“You as well…? The follies of youth, by the Archons…”
“Guraḥ!” Viridescent shouted insistently as she pounded her fist in Vyāghara’s back which barely caused a ripple of flesh. “Heed my words and don’t dismiss them!”
“You’re but a cub, both of you. The Withering has been a reality we’ve had to accept since the Scarlet King’s transgressions eons ago, you know this! The Marana has been dealt with and Gandharvangara remains untouched, as it always has! Besides, it’s most likely those Enkanomiyans are here because of the Raiden Shogun. They’ve refused to submit to her rule and are likely looking for allies to declare their independence. I know because I remember a time before even Watatasumi Island was raised from the depths by their god.
“Besides, this one needs to train with the Rākṣasas. He doesn’t need his head filled with nonsense more than you have, Viri.”
Viridescent’s vivid emerald eyes fell dejectedly on the pale stripes that littered Vyāghara’s hide, mouth pulled into a frown. Al-Haytham covered one of her hands with his, and she overlapped it with a soothed smile.
“I think you should at least consider them, Sayyidi,” Al-Haytham defended after a beat, squeezing the huntress’ hand. “To the Akkadians—”
“I don’t care what the Akkadians have to say, Jatā. I will consult the Mahārajā on this after her meeting, but if she claims there’s nothing to fear, then I don’t want to hear another word on this,” Vyāghara conceded with an irritated growl, but the pair astride his back saw it as a victory.
“So, you’re going to train with the Rākṣasas? How exciting!” Viridescent enthused with a laugh. “Such a tiny pup among such great beings… I’ll admit, it’s a little sillier than I’m sure it is.”
Al-Haytham retracted his hands and folded his arms in annoyance, huffing. “It’s not silly! The Mahārajā herself recommended me to train with them years ago, and they say I’m doing well. I can’t just limit myself to training as a Mantrik in the Vihāra,” Al-Haytham retorted defensively, and Viridescent badly stifled a grin.
“I’m sure they’ll turn you into a fine warrior, Jatā. Just… try not to get squished by them,” Viridescent replied with a bark of laughter, the boy’s glower utterly impotent against the Queen of Huntresses.
“Viri, enough. You can carouse later, but you must return to the Ashavan Realm to combat those Withering Zones. Am I clear?” the great tiger scolded his ward, lifting his head enough so an eye of piercing viridian could meet hers.
“Oh, fine. But little Ḥassān here owes me the stories of his great exploits from the Asura Realm once he’s finished. I’ll hold you to it!” Viridescent whooped as she sprang into the canopy once again, likely in heading to leave Gandharvangara and return to the mortal realm with the rustling of leaves through the treetops. Vyāghara sighed and shook his great head, a habit that seemed common around the young, Al-Haytham noted with a faint smirk.
“Archons, that girl…” Vyāghara huffed before he resumed his pace, muscles bunching as he hunkered low as if to pounce, taking off like a shot through the jungle. Greenery passed in an indistinguishable streak, settlements of the beings who dwelt in the canopy in elaborate tree houses glowing in the umbrage until they disappeared again.
The roar of the raging Sárasvatī River met Al-Haytham’s ears as Vyaghara sprinted towards the river banks, making a mighty leap upon boulders strewn on the riverbed, leapfrogging between them as he darted towards the thunder of a waterfall. Al-Haytham gripped tufts of Vyāghara’s fur as mist ghosted past his cheeks and wind snapped his long, silvery hair like a flag.
With a final, mighty leap did Vyāghara arc over the waterfall to plummet hundreds of feet to a bed of shining rose quartz, landing so softly it was as though he’d taken just a step. Al-Haytham’s heart soared into his throat and his stomach dropped in the free fall, but the boy calmed himself once Vyāghara padded towards a dais where several rings of flowering trees bent to create several portals. Misty, swirling vortexes centered in each portal, the means by which he would depart.
Hopping from Vyāghara’s great shoulders, Al-Haytham stopped before the portal and bowed to the tiger god. “Thank you, Sayyidi.”
Vyāghara chuffed in amusement. “What, no rebuttal? No demand for me to recant my stance on your suspicions?”
Al-Haytham shrugged nonchalantly. “I would be wasting my time trying to convince your ego. The truth will make itself known much sooner.”
“Convince my— You’re lucky you’re favored by the Mahārajā, Jatā, or else I would bite your arms off.”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Al-Haytham cajoled with no amount of undisguised sarcasm, the feline uttering a snort before alighting over the waterfall again with supernatural ease.
Wasting no further time, he faced the undulating scarlet portal and stepped through, his entire vision whiting out as he entered into yet another realm.
The forested realm of Gandharvargana melted away to reveal the coastal glare of the Asura Realm, an endless cauldron encompassed by waterfalls dumping into a churning maelstrom of scalding waters that spanned as endlessly as a sea. Al-Haytham stood atop an endless stone causeway that straddled the brink of one such waterfall, battlements rising high enough that he could barely peer to see the thundering cascades of them plummeting below.
The sun beat white and warm upon the pale flagstones, mists rising from the chasm below caressing Al-Haytham’s skin that created rainbows as they refracted the high, noontide sun. A group of Rākṣasa of decidedly lesser rank—that the boy’s trained eye could tell were trainees—were being lectured by a senior Rākṣasa. Unlike those he was used to, they took on human form, still decidedly taller than any human alive, and clad in splendorous-colored armor belied by how utterly simple it was compared to their seniors. Rapt interest as much as anticipation painted their coppery faces warmed by the glaring sun.
The one above retained a more animalistic guise, his hawkish face framed by scintillating black plumage while his body was mannish, donning a headdress that bracketed his visage like a halo. The war regalia studded with diamonds and bronze in the sun shone like a beacon, making it almost impossible to discern him clearly. Noticing the child’s approach, the Rākṣasa’s fierce expression gentled.
“Ah, Jatā! There you are,” came General Khara’s booming address, turning to face Al-Haytham above from the watchtower’s own battlements. “Maheśanī Acalā will be your teacher today. “You’re aware of where the Lotus Realm in our domain is, yes?”
“Yes, Sayyidi Khara. But… are you sure? Maheśanī Acalā is one of the Ten Rākṣasīs of the Lotus. What could she want with me?”
“She wants to train you, child. Isn’t that reason enough? You might not be human, and you may be long-lived, you are still a mortal child. Far too young to be questioning our ways. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Returning to face the recruits who’d made the mistake of relaxing, he barked at them and they immediately froze before resuming their stances once again. Al-Haytham couldn’t help but smirk slightly at how they jumped, but he continued his way along the sky bridge with every intention of not keeping his teacher waiting.
Still, through his sojourn between the many watchtowers and vigils where statuesque Rākṣasa stood sentinel, he wondered what had garnered their attention. While Al-Haytham thought of his skill as adequate, it was nothing compared to even the lowest Rākṣasa or even the most junior of the Yakṣas of Líyuè, their Líyuèn counterparts. Just as Líyuè had the Five Yakṣas that were the most powerful of their ilk and answered directly to the Geo Archon, so too did the Ten Rākṣasīs of the Lotus serve directly under the Dendro Archon.
Was his family’s close attachment to Lord Rukkhadevatā the reason? It seemed so absurd when they were far from the only ones who considered themselves part of the Archon’s brood, and he himself wasn’t particularly special when he was so young. Hardly a Deva or Asura, and even the Gandharva who danced and sang could defeat him without trying, so what was the reason?
Mired in those thoughts, the Rākṣasas’ domain towered above him, easily thousands of feet tall that scraped the very firmament in its height. The tiers of the tower shrunk like a pyramid the higher it ascended until it tapered into a great edifice shaped like the sun. The exterior was ringed by colonnades and dizzy with intricate, geometric architecture and myriad statues bracketed by ornate arches that encompassed every floor. The soaring eaves glared with sunlight off bronzy roofs that shone like golden scales, the specks of flying, avian Rākṣasas circling in flight paths like vultures over a carcass.
A massive stairway flanked by high, thick, and sloping walls guided the ascent while a proverbial town unfurled down the stairs themselves. Merchants peddled their wares, Gandharvas danced and sang in quaint troupes that filled the space with melodies, and Asuras of all stripes occupied the rungs as ordinarily as humans might. It was undoubtedly a lively scene, but in Al-Haytham’s mind, it allowed him to slip incongruously through the crowds without anyone making particular note of the young elf weaving his way toward the domain’s entrance.
A deceptively human-looking man with a dark complexion and thick beard clad in an orange kasaya and leaning on a gnarled wooden staff was the first to spot Al-Haytham, brightening on the boy’s approach.
“Ah, the little leaf has returned! Come, come, Maheśanī Acalā has been waiting for you.”
“Guru Agni,” Al-Haytham greeted as he bowed respectfully. The man was formally known as Guru Agni of House Śukra, a sage trained since youth to act as consuls to the Asura, especially the Rākṣasas. Al-Haytham had met him a few times before then, but hadn’t gotten to truly know him. “I’m here to train with Maheśanī Acalā in her realm.”
Agni’s bushy black eyebrows shot upwards. “One of the Ten? Now that’s one I haven’t heard before. It must be important.”
Al-Haytham’s turquoise gaze fell, obliviously boring into the stony ground. “Is there some reason why I’m being made to train with one of the Ten now? The Mahārajā received envoys from Enkanomiya this morning. This can’t be a coincidence.”
Agni was a treasured consul of the Asura, a sage with untold knowledge. His bushy eyebrows furrowed and he took his chin thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “It’s not unusual for other civilizations to come here in their time of need, little bird. Eons ago when the likes of Sal Vindagnyr or the Chasm were thriving civilizations, they would send envoys at all times. After all, in matters of Irminsul, the Mahārajā must be impartial.”
It was the same answer Vyāghara had given him in the sojourn there, and logically, it made the most sense. However, the most logical conclusion failed to satisfy him. That nag of foreboding clung to him like a burr, and Al-Haytham was too mystified by the lack of answers to banish it as just childish unreason just yet. The soundest conclusion he could find was that he needed to speak to Rukkhadevatā herself, or else his fears would never truly alleviate.
“You’re still troubled?” Agni queried softly, but it wasn’t with condescension or scolding as the two fell in step with each other, the sage keeping his shoulders hunched so he could hear the small boy better.
“The only answer I can think of is speaking to the Mahārajā myself, Sayyidi. Everyone else seems to have the same answer for me, so there’s no point in trying to ask even more.”
“Hm, how wise,” Agni replied with an amused chuckle, teeth bright against his dark beard. “More so than many of these so-called wise men I entreat with.” Amending with a cheeky wink, Al-Haytham smiled to himself.
The towering archway loomed over them as they passed beneath its overbearing shadow and over the stony threshold. Inside was grandly cavernous, swathed in cool shadows as vaulted ceilings rose for dozens of meters aloft. Frescoes of legend lined the mortar walls and voices within rose in a broad, haunting echo without the space. Ensconced lanterns garlanded the walls, some strung between that gave the illusion of smallness despite the vastness. The direct thoroughfare was broken apart by islets of trees that glowed like lampgrass, coronas of light casting a pall of pale illumination over those who passed beneath their boughs. Agni led him around an entourage of important-looking Devas, quick to bank towards a chamber to their right that branched into another smaller room where a portal was already present and waiting.
“And, here we are. The portal should take you to Maheśanī Acalā. Excited?” Agni tapped the butt of his staff against Al-Haytham’s ankle, the boy casting a peeved look toward the sage.
“Don’t do that!” Al-Haytham huffed in annoyance, though he softened a moment later. “Um… thank you. I have to get going.”
The realm the light just barely revealed was a forest of honeysuckle and showering lilacs, aglow through the tangle of cascading branches as towering trees and swaths of foliage congested the sky above that was a nocturnal cloak. The space was filled with a dark and misty gloam, the lone call of night fowl filling the air with a melancholy refrain.
Al-Haytham’s feet shifted through the long grasses and river reeds, splashing through the wetlands that radiated a turquoise, supernatural refulgence. All he could hear were the chirruping of crickets and the forlorn, faraway cry of loons as though he wandered through a dream. Thick and obfuscating fog crept over the ground, tendrils twisting damply around Al-Haytham’s ankles as he plodded through the shallow waters fearlessly.
“So, are you the one I’ve heard so much about?”
An eerie, disembodied voice circled around him, the shine of preternatural, sapphire eyes piercing through the gloom. Before him, the waters withdrew rapidly and towards a focal point, swirling in a vortex that coalesced into a churning globe before it was dispelled in a flourish, and the Rākṣasī, Acalā, finally revealed herself before him.
A woman with a coppery complexion split by glowing blue veins pulsed with unnatural light, eyes bright as the moon. Long, white and blue hair moved as though she were underwater, billowing through her baby blue dress and Sari. Dramatic blue kohl encompassed her eyes, sparkling like rhinestones against her cheeks.
“You’re the little bird the Mahārajā asked me to train, aren’t you?” Her voice lilted girlishly, but not unkindly. One wouldn’t think the water bearer to be one of the deadliest of the Asuras, but Al-Haytham knew that looks could be deceiving.
“Yes, Maheśanī.” Acalā’s cobalt-hued, painted lips tugged into a smile. Al-Haytham kept his gaze low, but couldn’t when delicate fingertips coaxed him by the chin to meet hers like the swirling depths of the ocean.
“Duel with me, little bird. Show me the might of your race. You have so many questions in your eyes, so perhaps I will answer them, should you prevail.”
She knew? Before the boy could collect his thoughts, Acalā’s catalyst manifested as a stylized water gourd, water gushing from the mouth as she was enveloped in the liquid before dropping with a splash into the shallow water. Though a few ripples were elicited from her, no other movement was perceptible.
At least, it would’ve been difficult… had he just been human.
Trust your senses, his mother’s voice reminded him from a long time ago. You have to silence your mind and its chatter. Listen, taste, feel, and see; only when you do these things can you trust what’s around you.
His tapered ears twitched to the almost inaudible swish of water that anyone else might’ve missed, head snapping in its direction. Barely a millisecond later did a water clone lunge towards him and sailed over his head as the young Akkadian ducked in time, splashing loudly. When he wheeled to see the aftermath, all that was left was a circle of ripples and no further disturbances. The haunting silence reigned again, and Al-Haytham began to sense as though this were a pattern.
Acalā was playing with him, and why wouldn’t she? Al-Haytham wasn’t so proud or egotistical to be unable to admit that he was hopelessly weak in comparison. For all the intelligence he knew he had, he was still a child; a little bird who knew how to fly but couldn’t necessarily take off yet.
He could flutter here and there, and it was the best he could do. It would be enough until he could become even stronger. It was a truth easily accepted when all children existed to learn, not to be born knowing everything at once.
All at once several tendrils of water rose like spouts and became prehensile, careening towards him with abandon. Al-Haytham knew he couldn’t rely on one approach, doing his best to evade the appendages that whipped him. He was lashed across his body a few times, and while it merely stung, the boy cried out in surprise.
Hissing in frustration, he instead leaped to catch a low-hanging lilac branch, scrambling up its length and into the boughs. With the canopy knitted so closely together, it made sighting the serpentine tendrils difficult, but being an elf meant his hearing was superb.
His ears twitched to the slightest sound or movement, keeping his own movements erratic as Al-Haytham leaped between the branches. Leaves and petals rustled as a few struck through the foliage, and Al-Haytham had to leap and flip to avoid them, doing so with as much alacrity as he could manage. He wove between the strikes and dove from the umbrage and to the ground below with a splash.
He couldn’t remain there, especially when the entire domain was Acalā’s turf.
He sprinted and narrowly avoided a salvo of the Rākṣasī’s aqueous appendages, her amused laughter sounding in the dissonance as though her voice was submerged in the ocean.
Then, it dawned on him: submerged in the water. If this was her domain, and water was her element, then…
Glancing down, he was shocked to see the undulating reflection staring back wasn’t his own, but that of Acalā’s. Seized by a jolt of adrenaline, Al-Haytham struck the surface and was met with a douse of water, Acalā emerging once more as the assaults finally ceased.
“Well done, little bird, well done,” the Rākṣasī praised as she clapped her hands demurely, a spark present in those churning blues. “I don’t think I need to explain that I couldn’t face you directly, no? But, I needed to test you somehow, and you passed. Well, what do you have to say?”
“It’s easier than I thought it would be,” Al-Haytham admitted bluntly, gazing up at the tall immortal with an impassive expression. It alone was enough to cause Acalā to burst into laughter. “I thought it would be more of a challenge.”
“Oh, this?” her voice lilted mischievously. “This is nothing. Once you begin training with me and my sisters, you’ll regret those words. Trust me, little bird, there’s much more to come.”
Meeting her gaze fearlessly, Al-Haytham then bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Maheśanī. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”
Acalā’s eyes shimmered enigmatically, and she smiled mysteriously.
“I know you won’t, little bird.” And, nor would she.