The night in Vallur reeked of salt and rot. Waves crashed against the black rocks of the coast, spraying foam into the narrow alleys where the poor made their homes. In one such alley, at the end of a crooked lane where stray dogs snarled over scraps, stood a hut barely strong enough to keep out the wind. Its roof was patched with palm leaves and rags; its walls sagged inward as if ashamed of their own weakness.
Inside, a boy crouched beside a pallet of straw. His name was Arjun, and though only eight years old, his eyes carried a sharpness uncommon for a child. Those eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on the woman lying before him.
His mother's breathing rattled like a rusted chain. Every inhale was shallow, every exhale carried flecks of blood that stained the cloth she pressed to her lips. By trade she was a washerwoman, scrubbing the clothes of Vallur's merchants in the polluted backwaters of the coast. Years of standing in filth, bent under the weight of others' garments, had left her chest hollow and her lungs riddled with disease.
"Drink," Arjun whispered, lifting a clay cup of water to her lips.
She pushed it away with trembling fingers. Her strength was gone, but her will remained. "Save it, Arjun. You'll need it more than me."
Arjun clenched his jaw. Hunger was his companion, thirst another. For weeks, food had come from stolen bread crusts, water from the public well guarded by thugs who demanded coin he did not have. Yet none of it mattered more than the woman before him—the only person in the world who had ever held him with love.
A coughing fit seized her. She rolled to her side, hacking violently until blood spattered the dirt floor. Arjun's small hands rubbed her back, though his face betrayed no tears. He had wept them all out in the last months. Now, there was only silence in his heart—a silence that waited, heavy and sharp.
When the fit subsided, she lay back, her chest rising shallowly. "Arjun," she whispered, voice thin as wind through reeds.
"Yes, Ma."
Her gaze drifted to the broken roof, where moonlight seeped in through holes. "This world… it is not kind. Remember that. It does not bow to goodness, or to prayer. It bows only to power."
Her words struck like hammer blows. Arjun leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. "I don't understand."
"You will." Her hand, cold and bony, reached for his cheek. "Your father… he was good. Too good. He worked the quarry with honest hands, but honesty doesn't feed a family. A boulder crushed him, and no one cared. They tossed his body into a ditch, Arjun. That is what goodness earns in Vallur."
The boy's throat tightened. He had faint memories of his father—a tall man with strong arms, singing while carrying stone. Those songs had ended long ago, swallowed by the mines.
His mother's eyes burned with a final, desperate light. "Promise me, Arjun. Promise you will never be like him. Don't bend. Don't beg. Become strong—strong enough that no one dares touch you. Take what you need. Take what is yours."
Her voice cracked into a fit of coughing, each spasm rattling her body. Arjun gripped her hand tighter, terrified it would slip away. "Ma, please—don't talk like that. You'll get better."
She smiled faintly, a broken smile that carried more sorrow than hope. "No, my son. My breath is ending. But yours… yours is only beginning." Her chest shuddered once, twice. "Live, Arjun. Live like the world must bow to you."
Her hand fell limp. The flicker in her eyes dimmed to nothing.
Arjun stared at her stillness, refusing to believe. He shook her shoulder, whispered her name, pressed his ear against her chest. Silence answered. The silence of finality, the silence of loss.
For a long while, he did not move. The night pressed in around him, broken only by the distant howls of dogs and the roar of the sea. Then slowly, he sat upright, his small hands curling into fists. His face remained dry of tears, but his heart seared with something far fiercer than grief.
A whisper escaped his lips, meant only for the dead:
"I promise."
The hours that followed blurred into darkness. The boy sat beside his mother's body until dawn painted the sky with hues of rust and ash. Outside, Vallur awoke with its usual cruelty—the dock bells rang, merchants cursed at laborers, gangs prowled the streets for tribute.
No one came to the hut. No one cared that a woman had died in the night, leaving a child behind. Life in Vallur was cheap, too cheap for mourning.
Arjun rose at last. His mother's body was light in his arms—far too light. He carried her out, past the stares of neighbors who said nothing. The city did not pause for grief; its heartbeat was gold, blood, and salt.
Beyond the alleys, at the edge of the coastal cliffs, he found a patch of earth where wild grass clung to stone. There, with his bare hands, he clawed at the soil. His fingers tore, nails cracked, but he did not stop until the pit was deep enough to hold her.
He laid her down gently, smoothing her hair, arranging her arms as if she merely slept. For a moment, he hovered above her, wanting to speak but unable to find words. Then he covered her with earth until the mound rose before him like a cruel reminder.
The boy stood in silence, the sea wind whipping his face. His body ached, his stomach growled, but inside his chest something new stirred—something sharp and hungry.
He whispered again, stronger this time: "I promise you, Ma. I'll carve my name into this world. Riches. Power. Respect. I'll take it all."
The gulls screamed overhead, as if bearing witness.
That night, he returned to the hut alone. The straw mat was empty, the silence unbearable. He curled up against the wall, staring at the hole in the roof where stars glittered faintly. Each star seemed distant, untouchable, but he swore he would one day rise higher than them all.
In his dreams, he saw himself standing atop a mountain of gold, enemies kneeling before him, their eyes filled with fear. Behind him, the shadow of a wolf loomed, fangs bared, its howl echoing across the land.
When dawn broke again, the boy opened his eyes with newfound resolve. He was no longer simply a child of Vallur's slums. He was a promise made flesh, a vow unbroken.
And though the world did not yet know it, the Wolf of Dhanvara had just drawn his first breath.