SAGES sit before the Fiyukthi, invoking various incantations. They cast their oblations as they invoke the names of various gods and their corresponding emanations. A man who looks to be a king sits in the middle of the procession upon a well-adorned throne chanting beside them.

Suddenly, a great flash emerges from the fire and rises high. The clouds above tear and in between their cracks, light issues through. And a swarm of black, red, and yellow things, emerging from both that light and all across the horizon, are sucked into the fire. They look to be snakes, yet some appear in the likeness of people and all cry and wail as they are burned alive.

The King begins to speed his chants and the snakes rush into the fire much faster. Yet at that moment, a lone snake with the body of a man falls from the Heavens and intervenes in the sacrifice. He falls to his knees and begs the King to stop this grave act of which would destroy all his people. He puts his head to the leg that dangled from the throne and begins to speak of a history of their people with the Mānuzhhaḥ and how they split themselves between them and the Demons, and that though it was a mistake on their part, not all of their kin should have to suffer for it.

The King becomes greatly angered, kicks the snake away, and hastens his chants, causing more snakes to fall into the fire, reduced to ash. With no other recourse, the lone snake beseeches the Gods to help, but none answer. And he continues on and on in futility, until at last, Dusdrahaḥ appears from beyond the clouds, seeming unable to bear anymore of the slaughter, and bids the king to put a stop to this foolish endeavor.

The King’s concentration at last is broken, and in his arrogance he calls the Gods and even Dusdrahaḥ himself cowards for not descending upon Ārhmanhaḥ to fight with the Mānuzhhaḥ against the Yavhaḥṃār. The King declares war upon the Gods. His recitation stops, and the sacrifice halts.

The thousands of Zūryashhaḥ that were gathered then go their separate ways.

The lone snake hovers beside the King of the Gods and prostrates to him, putting his head to his feet. Thereafter, does the King amass a great army to face against the Dehaḥṃār while the Gods, undescended, stand on the side of the righteous Ṃārhaḥn, and not long after, does war commence, and a great battle ensues of which many of the Ṃārhaḥn on either side are felled.

At the end of that long battle that lasts many days, the King is defeated and taken in chains before the Vimādhaḥṃār. Ishvhaḥṃār punishes him to walk in those very chains with neither food, nor rest, nor waste, for as long as his days persist. Marked is he and none may approach him. And dejected, does he walk away, with a black specter beside him, and soon vanishes across those desolate plains, never to be seen again.

The snakes rejoice at their deliverance, but the Gods show them no mercy for their folly in aiding the Demons. All that sided with their fallen kin were to set foot neither above nor below for as long as they persisted. Those snakes who aided the Yavhaḥṃār and the Ṃārhaḥn who stood by them—with little choice—take to the stars in their vessels, and vanish into the depths of space. And that lone snake bares in his heart a malice towards all the Ṃārhaḥn alike: whether inanimate, plant, animal, Human, or God.

He looks my way with that deep-seated rage blazing in his eyes, with the same black specter beside him as it looks to me with its eyes of white that blinds my sight. I quiver before the malice, wondering why I alone should have to behold this.

Tūmbṃār opened his eyes and felt a soft surface underneath. He turned to his side. Nakthaḥm was beside the bed. He bent himself until his face was above the boy’s.

“Come Tūmbṃār, we have much to speak on.”