The city was no kingdom.
The streets no battlefield with honor.
They called it Chennai. Hot sun, crowded lanes, endless noise.
Preeti carried me through the alleys, through the crush of faces and harsh smells of smoke and sweat.
Her hands were rough but steady.
Her eyes, even when tired, flamed with fierce determination.
"You will not be just a story whispered in the dark," she said gently.
School was a place of harsh whispers and cold shoulders. I watched the other children play with a distance I could not cross. Their games were noisy. They did not understand fear or strength.
Yet inside me, something burned bright.
The age of chariots was gone, but the fire of the sun never died.
I read books Preeti brought from the library—ancient stories, poems, science, and strange new technologies.
I learned to speak three languages before I spoke my first word.
They called me strange. Alone. A boy too old for his age.
But Preeti held me close and whispered, "In this world of lost gods, you will become your own light."