That night, as moonlight spilled through the cracks of his mud-brick hut, Aarav sat cross-legged with the golden ring cradled in his palm. It pulsed faintly with a warmth that seemed to recognize his touch. He hadn't dared wear it yet. Something ancient rested within the gem—something waiting.
The world outside was still. The sounds of night birds and distant drums of a nearby village festival felt like they belonged to another realm. Aarav closed his eyes, letting his thoughts flow like the river he often sat beside.
Then, he heard it.
A whisper.
Not a voice through ears, but one that echoed through his very mind.
"You are not broken... only hidden."
His eyes flew open. The ring's gemstone glowed, its radiance soft and red like dying embers. He looked around, heart pounding, but saw only shadows. The voice came again, clear now, commanding yet calm.
"You are the heir of silence, the blood of warriors past. You were never meant to live forgotten."
Visions surged before his eyes. A battlefield. Flames swirling in the air. Men chanting ancient mantras as they clashed with shadows. A warrior holding the very same ring, standing at the heart of it all, eyes burning with fury and purpose.
He gasped, pulling his hand away from the ring—but it stuck to his skin, refusing to be cast aside.
"I am Agneyastra—the flame bound in form. You bear my burden now, Aarav."
Tears welled in his eyes—not of fear, but a strange, sacred recognition. For the first time in years, something inside him stirred. Not anger. Not pain. But purpose.
As the visions faded and the ring's glow dimmed, Aarav fell to the ground, breathless. He clutched the ring to his chest.
The voice echoed one last time, like wind through ancient ruins.
"Wake, child of destiny. Wake."