The storm had scattered, leaving Bhaktapur drenched in a slick sheen of rain. Lanterns flickered where they hadn't been drowned, and shopkeepers cursed as they tried to salvage soaked goods. Yet, hidden high on a rooftop, Arya sat curled with his knees drawn tight, every drop of water that slid down his sleeve reminding him of the impossible glow still pulsing faintly in his palm.
He pressed the hand tighter against his chest. The trident mark shimmered once, then dulled as if retreating beneath the skin. For a heartbeat, relief loosened his shoulders. Then he caught his reflection in a puddle pooling along the roof's edge. His own eyes stared back—except they weren't the same.
A faint ring of blue light circled his pupils.
Arya flinched. He splashed water across his face, rubbed until his skin burned, but when he looked again, the glow was still there. Fainter now, but undeniable.
"Storm take me…" he muttered, voice hoarse.
He wanted to run back into the crowds, pretend none of it had happened. Pretend he hadn't stolen that satchel. Pretend he hadn't touched the shard. Pretend he wasn't… changing.
But the memory of the courtyard burned too brightly. The lightning. The voice. The way the shard had vanished into his skin as if it had chosen him.
Chosen.
Arya laughed bitterly under his breath. He was no chosen one. He was a street rat who survived on stolen dumplings and outrunning guards. He was nobody. Yet the storm hadn't asked what he wanted.
A sound broke his thoughts.
Scrape.
Arya twisted. The rooftop across from him wasn't empty anymore. A figure perched on its edge, motionless as stone, cloak dripping rain. Even through the distance, Arya knew. The same presence from the courtyard. The one with the red eye.
For a long moment, neither moved. The city's noise muffled below them—bells still tolling, vendors shouting—but up here, it was as if only the two of them existed.
"Who are you?" Arya whispered, though he doubted the figure could hear.
The red eye blinked once. Then the figure simply… stepped back, melting into shadow as if the darkness itself swallowed them whole.
Arya's throat went dry.
He scrambled to his feet, nearly slipping on the wet tiles, and bolted across the rooftops. He didn't look back. He didn't need to—the echo of that gaze burned in his chest as strongly as the mark on his palm.
By the time he collapsed into the alleyways of Taumadhi Square, the storm's traces had turned the stone streets slick and glistening. Festival lanterns swayed above, and drummers struck a beat that shook through the square. People laughed and shouted, clinging to the night's celebrations as though lightning hadn't just shattered the sky over Pashupatinath.
No one noticed Arya stumble in, gasping, soaked through. No one noticed the faint light under his sleeve.
But someone did notice the satchel dangling forgotten at his side.
"Oi, Arya!"
Arya spun, heart lurching. His best—perhaps only—friend, Mira, pushed through the crowd toward him. Her long braid stuck damp against her back, her forehead streaked with festival powder. She frowned, eyes sharp as always.
"You vanished! I thought the guards caught you again."
Arya forced a laugh. "Yeah, well, almost."
Her gaze dropped to his hand clutching his sleeve. "What's that?"
"Nothing." Too quick. Too defensive.
Mira's brows rose, but before she could press, a commotion rippled through the square. Drums stuttered, voices hushed, and the crowd parted as the King's guards stormed through—armor gleaming, tridents clutched in calloused fists.
Arya's blood iced.
"Search every corner," the captain barked. "By order of His Majesty—the stolen relic must be found!"
Gasps swept the crowd. Mothers pulled children close. Vendors ducked behind carts. The guards spread like a tide, their eyes sharp, their tridents sparking faintly with runes.
Arya shoved the satchel behind his back, but it didn't matter—the shard wasn't in there anymore. It was inside him.
The mark on his palm pulsed, betraying him, glowing faintly through the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
Mira saw it. Her eyes widened. "Arya…" she whispered, horror and awe tangled together.
He shook his head, desperate. "Not here. Don't say anything."
But it was too late. One of the guards had already turned, gaze locking on him.
"You there—stop!"
The crowd shifted, suddenly against him, a sea of faces retreating as though distance might shield them from whatever cursed thing he carried.
Arya's instincts screamed. Run. But the red eye from the rooftops lingered in his mind. Whoever that figure was, they hadn't struck yet. Why? What were they waiting for?
"Arya!" Mira hissed, grabbing his wrist. "This way!"
He didn't hesitate. Together, they shoved through the crowd, ducking past stalls, spilling baskets of rice into the rain-slick streets. Shouts rose behind them. Boots pounded stone.
The festival square blurred into alleys, alleys into stairways, stairways into the forgotten tunnels beneath the city. Arya's lungs burned, the trident mark searing hotter with every heartbeat, as if urging him deeper.
And all the while, in the back of his skull, the voice whispered again—low, commanding, inescapable.
Bearer of the storm… they will hunt you.
Arya staggered, clutching his head. The glow beneath his sleeve flared, casting light against the tunnel walls. Mira gasped but didn't let go, dragging him into the darkness.
Behind them, the guards' torches lit the alley in pursuit.
The hunt had begun.