Inside the Suvarna Mandira, the walls of gold began to whisper.
Not with prayer. Not with praise.
With doubt.
Cracks too small for mortals to notice began to spread across carvings. Mantras flickered like faulty lamps. The air, once rich with reverence, now carried a tremor. Something subtle. Dangerous.
Vaikuntharaja opened one of his many eyes.
He felt it.
A flickering in the grid of belief. A silent tremor in the faith-field. A breath he did not control.
He called his seers.
They spoke in riddles and offered incense, trying to distract. But gods, even false ones, know when power shifts. His most loyal weapon, Bhaktarakshaka, had left.
And worse—he hadn't left in rebellion.
He had left in peace.
That was a far greater threat.
In the deeper chambers, the imprisoned yogini goddess Matrika smiled in the dark.
She felt his gaze, reaching toward her prison like a jealous hand.
"They are remembering," she whispered. "One breath at a time."
"You fed them fear," she said, "but they've tasted stillness now. You can't take that away."
A crack split one of her chains.
Tiny.
But enough.
Vaikuntharaja sat perfectly still, yet the space around him rippled like heat above fire.
He was afraid.
Not of armies.
Not of weapons.
But of an idea.
That humans no longer needed him.