Savignya left Lohitpuri in a hurry. She needed answers. As her chariot sped toward her city, her mind was clouded with questions she couldn't shake off. Arya's change, his actions, his silence—they were not his own. Something had happened to him, and Savignya needed to know what.
As soon as she reached her city, she went straight to her chambers.
"Vijala, get me all the scrolls and records from the history department," she commanded sharply.
Vijala, a woman in her fifties and Savignya's trusted high officer as well as record keeper, obeyed immediately. She passed the order to her men, and soon stacks of scrolls and old manuscripts began arriving in the chamber.
Savignya dismissed everyone else but asked Vijala to remain.
She went to the table with the scrolls spread out before her. Her fingers moved with speed and certainty, unrolling, scanning, and discarding until she found a few old parchments with references to the name that had unsettled her—Tratar Raja.
She had heard that name before. A common deity in Kalagraha, worshipped especially in the Ashtaraj Triad. Always depicted standing, facing left, holding a spear and a shield. As a child, she believed him to be a god like the rest of them. But as she read more and more, her perspective shifted.
Tratar Raja was not just a god. He was once a king.
The records described him as a great ruler who protected the land from evil. His name echoed through the older manuscripts, but not as a celestial being. He was called Raja, not Deva. His story spanned over three thousand years—at least in the memory of the people.
In some parts of Kalagraha, his worship had faded. In others, it had been absorbed into newer traditions. The image remained—spear, shield, facing left—but the truth behind it had been buried under centuries of reinterpretation.
Savignya stared at a worn scroll, her eyes tracing the faded ink. She whispered the name under her breath. "Tratar Raja."
She remembered the last time she had heard the name. She had been nine, listening to an old story. The tale of a saviour king who descended upon the world when evil became unbearable. A protector. A wrathful force against injustice.
Back then, the story had stirred her heart. She had imagined herself like him—brave, powerful, feared by evil, and loved by the people.
But years had passed, reality had taken over, and that childhood dream had been shelved away.
Until now.
She opened her eyes and turned to Vijala.
"I am going to Suryagadh. I will go alone. Send a letter to the capital tonight and inform them I am coming. Request access to their oldest history records. Tell them it is urgent."
Vijala hesitated. "My lady, I understand your urgency, but shouldn't you wait? Be cautious in your steps. You're walking into deep waters."
Savignya's gaze was steady. "I know someone there who can help me. We need Arya to come back at any cost. I thought we had lost him. But that doesn't seem to be true. If everything goes according to plan, he will be back soon."
Vijala nodded, still concerned. "Very well. I will see to the letter. But please, take care of yourself. Leave in the morning."
Savignya gave her a small nod of gratitude. "Thank you, Vijala. I will be fine."
When Vijala left, Savignya sat back, staring at the image of Tratar Raja on one of the scrolls. Was it truly just an image? Or a memory of something much older than even Kalagraha dared to acknowledge?
Back in Suryagadh, within the fortified inner palace, Arya sat alone in his chamber.
A single oil lamp flickered near the window. The room was silent, but Arya's mind was not.
He sat on a wooden chair, hunched forward, elbows on knees, his hands gripping his head. A dull, persistent headache throbbed at the base of his skull. His breath was shallow. Cold sweat clung to his back.
He had been here for three days—or so they told him. But he couldn't remember any of it.
He remembered following a guard. Being summoned. A long corridor. A heavy door. A presence he couldn't define.
And then—nothing.
Only dreams.
He kept seeing a temple courtyard. Vast and old. Surrounded by tall stone walls, cracked with age. In the dream, he stood alone in the center. Shadows circled him. Some tried to attack. Others stood and watched.
But a few called out to him.
Their voices echoed like those of people he had once known.
"Come back."
"Return to us."
One voice… one voice sounded like Raghav's. Another like Rudra's. But he could never see their faces. He could never reach them.
His knees hit the stone floor. The pain spiked again.
Arya clenched his jaw. He could not understand what was real anymore.
And in his moments of confusion, one image always came back.
A dark corridor. A hand reaching out. Not to hurt—but to command.
He didn't know whose hand it was. But whenever it appeared, he would kneel. Willingly. Without thought.
Why?
He gasped and let out a low groan as another sharp jab of pain hit his head.
His hands trembled. He couldn't think clearly. It was like something was locked inside him—and whatever was holding the key didn't want him to remember.
He had always relied on discipline, will, and clarity. But now, he felt none of those things. There was a fog wrapped around his mind, like chains of smoke he couldn't break through.
He stayed there, breathing heavily, trying to hold on to whatever fragments of himself remained.
Outside, the palace torches flickered in the wind.