---
Parashu stood amid the ruins.
Fires still flickered, casting trembling shadows across the broken bodies strewn on the blood-soaked earth. Jamadigini lay crumpled beneath a mound of shattered stones, utterly still. Smoke curled thickly into the choking sky, while the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if afraid to disturb the silence.
Then, she appeared.
Her footsteps made no sound. Bare feet glided over the scarlet ground as if she floated. Ash and mist clung to her like a living shroud, and her hair wove around her like tendrils of smoke in a cold breeze. Her eyes—gleaming like dying stars—locked onto Parashu with a hunger both quiet and fierce.
Yakshini.
"You did it," she said softly, her voice a silk ribbon dragged rough over shattered glass. "Because of me."
Parashu blinked, chest heaving with the aftershock of battle, fists clenched tight. "What do you mean... you?"
"You let me in," she whispered, stepping closer, the air thickening with her presence. "That final moment… when Jamadigini was poised to strike… you reached deeper. You called me."
"I didn't—"
"You did," she cut in gently, pressing her palm over the burning sigil emblazoned on his chest. "You called because you were dying. Alone. Hopeless."
Parashu's mouth parted but no sound came.
"Feel that?" she breathed, voice low and coaxing. "The warmth? The life I breathe into you?"
She leaned in, her breath a ghost at his ear.
"Let me carry your burden. Be the blade your hands can't wield. Speak the words, and I'll finish this fight. Erase Jamadigini. Tear down gods' walls."
The warmth spread, intoxicating and fierce. His knees weakened. His mind swirled with fragments—rage, flame, fear—but most of all, power. Pure, unbound power.
"I…" His lips trembled. "I can't win alone."
A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips. "Then let me fight for you."
Her fingers pressed deeper into his chest, the sigil pulsing faster, syncing with her voice.
"Say it," she urged. "Let me in."
The world around him shimmered. The village blurred. Flames froze midair. Ashes hung suspended.
A dream.
No—a trap.
Lightning struck realization through his mind.
His eyes snapped wide.
And then—
"WAKE UP!"
A thunderous voice shattered the illusion like glass.
---
Parashu bolted upright, gasping as if pulled from drowning. Sweat drenched his skin. Breath ragged and shallow. His whole body trembled, heart pounding a fierce war drum.
The ceiling above was cold stone. The air smelled faintly of dust and incense. A faint rune glowed on his forehead—warm, steady.
Master Vishma sat quietly beside him, palm outstretched in calm.
"Easy now," the old man soothed. "You're safe."
Parashu's eyes searched the room, haunted by the remnants of the nightmare.
"Where… where is she?"
"Gone," Veerath answered, standing near the doorway, clutching a golden-threaded scroll, its seal freshly broken. "For now."
Trying to rise, Parashu faltered. "She showed me everything—Jamadigini, the battle, the power. It felt real."
"It was real," Vishma said softly. "Real enough to fool your heart into surrender."
Parashu's hand moved to the Blood Sigil still glowing on his chest. Still his.
"She can't take your body by force," Veerath said, voice sharp. "Not while Vetala blood guards it. But if you give her the key—if you speak the words—she will consume you whole."
Parashu looked down, shame prickling like fire. "I almost did."
Vishma's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you didn't. And that matters."
Veerath's gaze darkened. "She'll come again. You carry the Core Fragment now. To her, you're the doorway to power beyond reckoning."
Parashu clenched his fists, resolve hardening like tempered steel. "Then I'll never let her in. Not again."
Veerath handed him the scroll. "This will help keep your mind sealed—but it's not enough. You have to make peace with the storm inside you. You can't just reject the darkness. You have to understand it."
Parashu nodded slowly. Fear lingered—but beneath it, something stronger began to grow. Determination.
---
Far beneath the shrine, where even shadows feared to tread, Yakshini stirred.
Her laughter echoed softly, winding through bones of gods long dead.
"You'll come back to me, little heir," she whispered. "They always do."
---
The dream was over.
But the echo it left in Parashu's blood still throbbed.
---
At dawn, Master Vishma stood in the shrine's silent halls, gathering ancient scrolls sealed with the marks of forgotten wars—rites meant for kings, monsters, and cursed souls who stood between both.
He murmured old incantations, fingers tracing trembling runes.
"No more waiting. If we don't forge him now... the shadows will claim him."
The training chamber had to be prepared.
He wouldn't be the same boy who first gripped a blade.
---
On a small hill overlooking the village's edge, Parashu knelt alone as morning stretched over the scarred horizon. His cloak, torn and battered, fluttered softly in the still air. Smoke from last night's destruction lingered low, drifting like reluctant ghosts.
His body bore bruises and wounds, but his soul whispered—not with his voice, but with something older. Something raw.
Master Vishma's boots approached, crunching softly on grass. Arms folded, his cloak drawn tight, he watched the boy—the chosen, the heir.
"You hear it now, don't you?" he asked quietly, weight heavy in his tone.
Parashu's fingers dug into the earth, trembling—not from weakness, but from something ancient stirring within.
"What is this voice?" he whispered. "It speaks in a language I don't know… but it feels like it knows me."
Vishma nodded, eyes distant.
"The Vetala bloodline isn't just royal—it's cursed. And divine. That voice is the blood remembering itself."
A low hum rose.
The ground cracked beneath Parashu, hissing as if rejecting him.
Veins of violet-black energy spiraled up his arms like ink spilled in water, pulsing rhythmically.
His breath caught.
His eyes flickered—crimson at the core, encircled by a golden ring shimmering like a storm trapped beneath skin.
Vishma stepped back, voice grave.
"It has begun."
---
Visions exploded behind Parashu's eyes:
A blood-soaked field scattered with corpses. A throne of bones rising beneath a dying sun. Thunder-cloaked giants tearing each other apart. Gods warring beneath a shattered moon.
A warrior—him, or a facsimile—locked in battle against a colossal shadow, eyes blazing with betrayal.
Then—
Pain, searing and fierce, blossomed over his heart.
He threw back his head and roared—not in agony, but in recognition.
A mark branded his flesh: a fanged eclipse encircling a single, unblinking eye of red-gold flame.
The Blood Sigil.
Not a curse. Not a symbol.
A claim.
The wind screamed through the trees, branches bending and snapping. Birds scattered in wild flight.
And Parashu rose.
Not a broken boy mourning his village.
Not a warrior barely holding on.
But a weapon, blood-woken and ready for war.
---