Flashback – Brahma POV
In the hollowed sanctum beneath the ruins of Skyhowl Temple, the storm outside was nothing compared to the one cradled in Brahma Varma's arms. His newborn son
Excellent clarification. Let's rewrite the chapter accordingly — making Brahma not a god, but a mortal Monarch who once ruled over a storm-wracked dominion. This grounds the myth while preserving the majesty of Indra's origin. Indra isn't of divine lineage — he's naturally born with terrifying elemental authorities, so great that even his father feared their consequences.
The storm was a whisper compared to the wailing newborn in Brahma Varma's arms.
Lightning danced across the sky above the fallen citadel, illuminating the shattered dome of what was once the Tempest Throne. Inside the sanctum beneath, lined with obsidian runes and iron-bound tomes, the former monarch knelt before the ancient slab. His hands trembled — not from fear, but from the impossible weight of what his son had been born with.
Indra. A child named not after gods, but after power itself.
Even as an infant, the signs were undeniable. The moment he had drawn breath, the wind had howled as if the sky itself had been torn open. Rain had poured from a cloudless sky. Thunder rumbled from within his cries. Hail fell in perfect spirals around the temple grounds, forming a ring of frozen authority. And his skin — it shimmered faintly, not from magic, but from raw, living metal.
Brahma had once ruled a storm-bound kingdom — Monarch of Tempest Vale, a land that revered the storm but never dared harness it. He had seen tyrants wield blades of lightning, seen scholars bottle wind, seen weapons carved from thunder—but never before had he seen a child who commanded them naturally, without ritual or runes.
"If left unsealed…" he whispered to himself, watching as tiny arcs of electricity snapped between the infant's fingers, "…he could break the world."
That night, Brahma did what no father should ever have to.
He placed his son upon the Anvil of the Veiled Sky, a relic of an older age — one that could channel will into restraint. Around them, the air thickened with ancestral memory. The monarch raised his hand, bloodied and etched with storm-seal sigils, and began the ritual.
Ninety-nine seals.
Each seal a prison. Each seal a mercy.
• The Seal of Cyclonic Dominion — to bind his control over hurricanes and gales.
• The Seal of Electric Wrath — to dampen the devastating arcs of lightning that pulsed in his blood.
• The Seal of Thunderous Will — to prevent his voice from shaking structures as he aged. • The Seal of Rain's Sovereignty, the Seal of Hail's Dance, the Seal of Metal's Core…
• The Seal of Invincibility, laid over his heart, to suppress the body's natural, indomitable defense that could one day make him a walking calamity.
One by one, Brahma placed them — not to diminish his son, but to delay the awakening. Each was branded into his soul, not visible on the flesh but deep in the stormprint of his existence.
As the final seal, the 99th, was placed — the Seal of Stormrage, meant to contain the rage that could rend reality — Brahma collapsed, hands scorched by the backlash. The air calmed. The lightning paused.
And for the first time, the boy slept peacefully.
Brahma cradled him once more, eyes heavy with sorrow and hope.
"One day," he murmured, "when the world is ready… or when it is most in need, the seals will break. And the storm will walk."
Outside, the wind sighed — as if the heavens themselves were listening.