The Morning After Prophecy
Dawn had barely broken when Arjun sat up from his reed mat, drenched in sweat. The echoes of Madhavan's words circled his mind like incantations "Awaken the Four Echoes of Balance… or the land will rot." He stared at the wooden box given to him by the oracle, still unopened beside his pillow.
The early breeze drifting in from the open window carried with it the scent of river silt and wet bark. Birds chirped hesitantly, as though unsure whether they were greeting a new day or warning it. Outside, Ramapuram's villagers moved in their usual rhythm, unaware of the storm quietly brewing beneath their feet.
The hut's wooden planks creaked as Arjun rose, his fingers tracing the lines of the ancient box. Carefully, almost ritualistically, he unlatched it and lifted the lid.
Inside was the silver-veined leaf Madhavan had shown him the day before delicate, shimmering faintly even in the pale morning light. Its veins were intricately shaped like paths on a maze. But there was something else beneath it: a thin slip of paper wrapped around a pebble.
In Madhavan's fragile, spidery handwriting, the note read:
"Begin where fire sleeps and clay remembers. The map is buried, not drawn. The vessel that holds it weeps still. – M"
Arjun read the line again. It didn't resemble a riddle so much as a chant. But the words "clay remembers" struck a note. The village potter's kiln. Clay. Fire. Earth. These were elements that bound together time.
It was time to visit Kunjiraman, Ramapuram's reclusive potter.
The Man Who Spoke to Clay
Kunjiraman was a man of few words and even fewer guests. His workshop sat on the village's outskirts, hugged by sloped fields and canopies of banyan trees. He had lived there for over fifty years, firing every pot by hand in the old kiln his father had built, a structure said to be older than the British raj itself.
Arjun approached as the sun climbed over the mist, and was immediately greeted by the rhythmic thud-thud of a wooden mallet pounding clay on stone. Kunjiraman's wiry frame was hunched over a large wheel, his hands molding what appeared to be a ceremonial vessel.
"You've never visited me before," he said without turning. His voice was dry but sharp.
Arjun blinked. "You know who I am?"
"I know your eyes," Kunjiraman replied. "Same as Arjunan's. The last one who came here seeking more than pottery."
Arjun's breath caught. "You knew my ancestor?"
"I knew his silence." The potter finally turned, his hands stained with wet earth. "And I know you come because the ground has started whispering again."
"I was told the map… it's not drawn. It's buried. In a vessel that weeps."
Kunjiraman stood, his eyes narrowing.
"Come."
The Kiln of Echoes
He led Arjun behind the main hut, where the old kiln stood massive, gnarled like a termite hill, with soot-stained stone and blackened vines growing over its dome. The mouth of the kiln was shut with a sealed iron door, and old Ashoka leaves had been pressed into the crevices.
"This kiln," Kunjiraman began, "wasn't always used for pots. Once, long ago, it was used to seal messages. Not written ones. Encoded ones."
He knelt and dusted away the base of the kiln, revealing a buried clay pot partially fused to the kiln's foundation.
"This is the vessel that remembers. It holds not paper. But resonance."
Arjun frowned. "I don't understand."
"You will."
With a hammer and a cloth, Kunjiraman gently broke open the pot. The sound it released wasn't just the shatter of ceramic it was an echo. A deep, humming vibration, like a bell struck underwater. Arjun staggered back as a warm pulse rolled over him.
Within the pot was not parchment or ink but a hollow stone, small, round, and perfectly smooth, with four indentations around its circumference.
Kunjiraman picked it up like a sacred object.
"This is the Memory Core. The ancients used this to unlock the map. It responds to elements air, water, earth, flame."
Arjun recalled Madhavan's words: "Echoes of Balance."
"The map is inside this?"
"No. The map is *awakened* through this. But to see it, you must complete the cycle."
Clay, Blood, and Echo
Kunjiraman handed Arjun the core, wrapping it in soft cotton. "Take it to the banyan tree in the village square at dusk. Dig beneath its roots. There you will find the clay tablet the one your ancestor hid."
Arjun's heart thudded. "You knew he buried it?"
"He told no one. But the tree… it grew crooked ever since."
As Arjun turned to leave, the potter added quietly, "The moment you hold the map… they will know."
"They?"
But Kunjiraman had already turned back to his wheel.
The Unearthing at Dusk
At sunset, Arjun returned to the ancient banyan. Children had finished their play. The temple drums were silent. The sky burned gold and orange like spilled paint. Armed with a trowel and the wrapped core, Arjun waited until twilight cloaked the square in shadows. Then he began to dig.
The soil was loamy but resistant, as though trying to protect its secret. Inches turned to feet. His arms ached. Finally his trowel struck something hard.
A slab of fired clay , embedded with concentric rings, symbols, and faint engravings in Vattaezhuthu script a script even older than classical Tamil.
As soon as Arjun's fingers touched it, the stone core in his satchel pulsed faintly warm and alive.
He held both objects together.
Suddenly, the tablet shimmered.
The Map of Shadows
From the surface of the tablet, an ethereal image projected not as a hologram, but as a mist of memory. Faint outlines formed: hills, rivers, symbols of temples lost in time, boundaries marked with sacred geometry.
A circle of four emblems appeared in the corners:
A swirling gust of wind. A droplet within a spiral
A flame held in a palm
A rooted tree crumbling at its base
The Four Echoes.
Arjun fell to his knees. This wasn't a map in the ordinary sense it was a metaphysical guide. A map of alignment. A key to balancing nature's four guardians.
In the center was the first Echo: "Vaanavur" The Echo of Wind.
A voice not his, nor Madhavan's whispered inside his skull:
"Begin where the wind bends backwards, and silence is loudest. The Echo awaits beneath the breathing cliffs."
The image faded.
The slab cracked.
The stone core sealed itself.
Arjun sat in the dust, heart hammering.
The journey had begun.
The Eyes in the Dark
As he began covering the pit again, a sound behind him stopped him cold. A twig snapped. Then another. He turned slowly.
A figure stood beyond the banyan's shadow.
Not a villager.
Not a human.
Its shape was humanoid but the limbs too thin, the joints bent backwards, the eyes glowing faint violet. It watched him, unblinking.
Arjun didn't run.
He held the core tightly.
The figure raised a hand, as if in warning or benediction then disappeared into the banyan's hanging roots.
Arjun fell back.
The guardians were watching.
And so were the devourers.
Key Takeaways:-
Arjun retrieves the Memory Core, an ancient tool that reveals spiritual maps through elemental resonance.
The potter Kunjiraman provides the philosophical and symbolic link between clay, fire, and memory.
The Echo Map is not physical but spiritual, unlocked through combining ancient tools with elemental quests.
Arjun's journey is set to begin at Vaanavur, the domain of the Wind Echo.
The appearance of a mysterious non-human entity foreshadows the awakening of other forces guardians or ancient threats.