Ashes of Dharma

The space beyond the second gate wasn't empty.

It was still. Heavy. Alive.

Stone walls rose in a circle, etched with ancient mudras and fractal yantras glowing faintly in breath-colored light. In the center sat a man.

Cross-legged.

Chained.

Eyes closed.

A yogi.

Aarav stepped forward cautiously. The man's hair flowed like riverweed, matted with dust. His beard touched the floor. His chest moved so slowly it was hard to tell if he was even alive.

Then he spoke—without opening his eyes.

"You walk their path. But not for them."

Aarav paused. "For who, then?"

The yogi's voice was dry and deep, like breath over coals.

"For truth. That is why they fear you."

Aarav knelt. "Who chained you?"

"Not gods. Not demons. Devotees."

The word hit hard.

"When faith becomes fear, they bind what doesn't beg. They chain what doesn't kneel."

The yogi lifted one chained hand and pointed to the mark on Aarav's palm.

"You carry flame. But fire alone isn't freedom. You must learn to hold it without burning others."

Aarav bowed—not in worship, but in recognition.

"What must I do?"

The yogi opened his eyes—silver pools of calm rage.

"Free me."

Aarav placed his hands on the chains. Closed his eyes. And breathed.

Not to pull. Not to force.

But to listen.

Each chain carried a mantra of control—chants that fed off submission. Aarav didn't fight them.

He accepted them.

And then let them go.

One by one, the links dissolved.

The yogi stood, bones cracking, breath steady.

"The third gate is not a door," he said. "It is a being."

"You are it."