Before Ravian was a name whispered with dread or wonder, before blades and fire and shadow marked his path, he was simply a child of Dharna.
The village rested in the cradle of gentle hills, wrapped in green fields and golden light. Time moved slowly here, not in hours or days, but in seasons. Rain meant laughter, and harvests meant singing. Joy was not a grand thing, but a quiet one—a warm meal, a child's giggle, a hand held in silence.
Ravian was born in the first light of spring, when the cherry trees had just begun to bloom. His mother, Noor, held him as though she were cradling the sun itself—warm, fragile, and full of promise. Rehan, his father, could only stare, breath caught in his throat.
"He looks like you," Noor whispered, eyes shimmering. "But there's something else."
"Something more," Rehan murmured.
They named him Ravian, a name that stirred something even in the old village priest, though he said nothing.
As a child, Ravian was soft-spoken and radiant. His eyes were deep and reflective, like still water touched by moonlight. He was not loud or wild, but the world seemed to lean toward him. Birds perched on his shoulders. Foxes watched him from the edge of trees. Even the village elder swore the wind carried his laughter farther than it should.
"Mama, can I keep it?" Ravian held a trembling fawn, eyes wide with pleading.
Noor knelt beside him, brushing a leaf from his cheek. "It belongs to the forest, love."
"But I want to protect it."
"Then let it go. That's how you protect something wild."
He looked down, brows furrowed. Then nodded. That was Ravian. Always nodding. Always letting go.
Rehan watched in silence, concern in the lines of his brow. "He's kind. Too kind."
Noor took his hand. "That isn't a flaw."
"No," Rehan said, voice low. "It's a target."
Still, they let him be who he was. They let him chase butterflies barefoot and talk to trees as though they might answer. They let him give away his share of bread to hungry dogs. They let him be gentle in a world that would soon demand cruelty.
But the world was watching.
The Asraar Clan ruled over these lands like a shadow made flesh—distant, but always present. Every seven years, they came to collect. Every family knew. Every child feared. Ravian didn't.
On the night before his seventh birthday, the stars came early, blinking through a sky of endless blue. Ravian ran barefoot through the fields, chasing fireflies, laughter trailing behind him like a ribbon. Noor stood at the door, arms folded, eyes wet.
"He doesn't know," she said.
Rehan stood beside her. "How could he?"
She looked at her son, at the way the light wrapped around him like armor. "I hoped they would forget. Just this once."
Rehan didn't answer. He knew hoping was its own cruelty.
Then they came.
Three figures in black robes, faces shadowed, eyes cold. The tallest one bore a scar that split his cheek like a lightning bolt.
Rehan moved to block the path. "Please. Not him."
The scarred man didn't blink. "Every child. No exceptions."
"He's just a boy," Noor said, voice cracking.
"That is why we come now. Before the world softens him too much."
Ravian stopped chasing fireflies. He turned and saw them. And something in his smile faltered.
"Mama?"
Noor fell to her knees, arms outstretched. "Come here, my heart."
He ran to her, wrapped in the warmth of her arms. She rocked him gently, as if time might rewind.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, voice small.
Rehan knelt beside them, cupping his son's face. "You're going to learn how to be strong."
"I don't want to. I want to stay."
The scarred man stepped forward.
Noor kissed Ravian's brow, her tears soaking into his hair. "You'll come back. You must."
He was pulled from her arms. His scream shattered the air.
The village watched but said nothing. Grief was a ritual they knew too well.
The forest swallowed them.
---
The walk was long. Too long. Ravian's feet ached. His sobs had quieted into hiccups. The trees grew taller, darker. The light vanished.
When they emerged, they stood in a clearing full of children. Silent. Pale. Ravian recognized some. Most he didn't. All of them looked the same.
Terrified.
Men sat at a long table at the center, drinking, laughing. Their eyes sharp. Their words cruel.
"This lot? Gods help us."
Ravian shrank.
A memory surfaced in him, unbidden. His mother's hands on his cheeks. His father's voice saying, *Be brave.*
He wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to disappear into the dirt.
Instead, he stood. Shivering. Alone.
And the night closed in.