Before time counted its own passing, before stars called each other by name — there was only Silence.
Not peace.
Not void.
Just the cold breath of a world before truth was allowed to exist.
And then came the gods.
They named light. They sculpted worlds.
They divided chaos into elements and ruled each shard like empires.
And when mortals arose from flame and dust, the gods taught them obedience, not freedom.
For ages, mankind called it divine order.
But not all did.
In a land untouched by divine decree, a people lived who remembered the truth of creation — the truth the gods wanted buried.
They held no temples.
They bowed to no sky.
They wrote no scriptures… but they remembered.
And for that… they were erased.
Not slain.
Not destroyed.
Erased.
Their names burned from stone.
Their voices plucked from memory.
Their villages turned to glass and shadow.
Among the ash of that genocide, a boy stood.
Hair white from flame.
Eyes lit with embers that never died.
His name was…
Astha.
He was not chosen.
He was not blessed.
But something survived within him — a piece of memory the gods failed to burn.
A whisper. A name. A wrath.
---
Centuries passed.
The gods grew decadent. Arrogant.
New pantheons rose — of thunder, trickery, sunfire and war.
But the flame that should have died still burned in the forgotten boy.
And the weapon born of remembrance, Smritidhaara, whispered to him in dreams.
"They think your people never lived."
"Remind them."
---
In the age of gilded thrones and divine judgment, as Swarnalok watches from golden halls and other mythologies stir in silence...
A forgotten flame walks again.
Not as a hero.
Not as a savior.
But as a reminder:
That the gods are not untouchable.
That memory is a weapon.
And that one mortal can ignite a war that outlives reality itself.
---
The war hasn't begun yet.
But soon… it will.