The chains lay scattered like dead snakes.
The yogi stood, spine straight, arms relaxed, eyes alive—not grateful, not afraid, just free.
Aarav stepped back, unsure. "I thought there were seven gates."
"There are," the yogi said. "But not all are places."
He touched Aarav's shoulder, palm warm, steady.
"The third gate was never meant to be passed. It was meant to join you."
Aarav felt it.
Not power.
Presence.
The yogi didn't fade. He walked beside him, step for step, breath for breath. Not as a guide. Not as a master.
As a mirror.
They crossed into a new chamber—smooth stone, no carvings, no sound. Only a single thread of light, suspended mid-air.
Aarav stared.
The yogi spoke:
"From here on, you will face not what the gods fear… but what you fear. This is where the path splits."
"You can return. Lead your people. Stay in the world."
"Or go deeper. Into the roots. Into the source."
Aarav closed his eyes.
And he remembered the boy in Delhi. The ruined temple. The crows. The fire. The broken gods. The breath.
He stepped forward.
The light bent.
And the third gate followed.
Behind them, in the chamber of chains, the air shimmered.
And far above, in temples built on lies, statues cracked without being touched.