The Chandra Kingdom was a land of echoes, where the wind carried whispers of a war no one dared speak of aloud. Its rolling hills, once lush with emerald grasses and dotted with sapphire lakes, now bore the scars of a conflict that had torn the earth asunder. The people had rebuilt, of course—stone by stone, life by life—but the silence lingered. It was not the silence of peace, but of something heavier, something that clung to the air like damp fog, stifling the songs of birds and the laughter of children. In the heart of this kingdom, within the towering walls of the Chandra Palace, King Arav sat upon his throne, a figure of unyielding authority, his presence as immovable as the mountains that framed the horizon.
At thirty-eight, Arav was a man carved from both marble and shadow. His broad shoulders bore the weight of a crown forged from star-iron, its edges glinting faintly in the torchlight that bathed the throne room. His dark hair, streaked with the first hints of silver, was pulled back tightly, revealing a face that was both regal and weary. His eyes, deep and amber, were the only betrayal of the storm within him. To his court, he was the Iron King, the unbreaker, the man who had ended the war and brought order to a fractured land. But to himself, he was a prisoner, shackled to a memory sixteen years old, a wound that bled anew each night.
The throne room was empty this evening, save for the king and the ghosts that haunted him. The high, arched windows let in slivers of moonlight, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and wax, but beneath it, Arav could still smell the iron tang of blood. It was a scent that never left him, no matter how many years passed. He leaned back in his throne, the Vajra sword resting against its arm, its blade etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. The sword was a relic of the war, a symbol of his victory, but also a reminder of his failure. His fingers tightened around the armrests, the cold stone grounding him as his mind drifted to a place he had forbidden himself to revisit.
The battlefield was vivid in his memory, as if it had been yesterday rather than sixteen years ago. He was twenty-two then, a prince with fire in his veins and hope in his heart. The war had been raging for years, a brutal clash between the Chandra Kingdom and the shadowy forces of the Kala-Pravaha, a malevolent power that seemed to feed on despair itself. Arav had fought alongside his closest friend, a young man whose name he could no longer bear to speak aloud. They had been inseparable, two halves of a single soul, their laughter and dreams weaving a tapestry that had made the war's horrors bearable.
In the memory, Arav saw himself running through a field of ash and ruin, his sword slick with blood, his breath ragged. The sky was a bruise, heavy with storm clouds that refused to break. Beside him ran his friend, his red tunic a beacon in the chaos, his hands clutching not a weapon but a flute—an Anahata flute, its notes capable of calming even the fiercest of storms. The melody had been their shield, a thread of light in the darkness, until the moment it stopped. Arav's memory fractured here, as it always did: a scream, a ledge, a hand reaching out, and then—nothing. Just the sickening lurch of a body falling into the gorge below, swallowed by shadows. The flute's song had ended, and with it, a part of Arav's soul.
He snapped back to the present, his chest tight, his breath shallow. The throne room was still silent, but the echo of that long-ago melody lingered in his ears. He rose abruptly, his robes whispering against the floor as he strode toward a narrow door hidden behind a tapestry. The guards stationed outside the room did not follow; they knew better than to disturb the king when he sought solitude. The door led to a small, windowless chamber, its walls lined with shelves of ancient scrolls and artifacts. In the center stood a locked chest, its surface carved with protective runes. Arav knelt before it, his hands trembling as he produced a key from a chain around his neck.
The chest creaked open, revealing a single object: a broken Anahata flute, its once-smooth wood splintered into two jagged pieces. The sight of it was a knife to his heart. He lifted the pieces gently, as if they might crumble to dust in his hands. The flute had belonged to his friend, its music a gift that had once filled the world with hope. Now, it was a relic of guilt, a reminder of the moment Arav had failed to save the one person who mattered most. He traced the edges of the wood, his fingers lingering on the carved patterns, and for a moment, he could almost hear the notes again—soft, lilting, a melody that spoke of home and love and promises unbroken.
"Why didn't I reach you in time?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness. The question was not new; it was a ritual, a nightly confession to the darkness. He returned the flute to the chest, locking it away as if he could lock away the pain. But the pain was part of him, woven into his bones, and no amount of gold or power could erase it.
The days in the Chandra Palace passed in a blur of duty and decorum. Arav presided over his court with the precision of a man who had mastered control, his decrees shaping the kingdom's future while his heart remained tethered to the past. His advisors, a council of gray-bearded scholars and battle-hardened generals, spoke of trade routes and border disputes, but Arav's mind was elsewhere. He saw the red tunic in every flash of color, heard the flute's echo in every gust of wind. The kingdom thrived under his rule, but he was a king adrift, searching for something he could not name.
It was on one such evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the palace halls glowed with the soft light of a thousand lanterns, that the silence was broken. A court messenger, a young man with nervous eyes, burst into the throne room, his boots echoing against the marble. The council, gathered for their evening session, turned as one, their murmurs falling silent. Arav's gaze sharpened, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the Vajra sword.
"Your Majesty," the messenger said, bowing low, his voice trembling with urgency. "A discovery has been made in the village of Kharavati, far to the east. A ceremonial drum, ancient and… unusual. The villagers claim it hums with a strange energy, a sound they cannot explain."
The council erupted into dismissive chuckles. "Superstition," muttered Lord Vira, a grizzled general with a scar across his cheek. "The eastern villages are full of such tales. Likely a trick of the wind or a drunkard's imagination."
But Arav's heart had stopped. The messenger's words—*a strange energy, a hum*—clawed at something deep within him, something he had buried sixteen years ago. "Describe it," he said, his voice low but commanding, cutting through the council's chatter like a blade.
The messenger swallowed, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "They say it's a deep, resonant sound, Your Majesty. Not loud, but… heavy. Like a shadow given voice. They call it the Drum of Kharavati, and they believe it's tied to the old stories, the ones about the Kala-Pravaha."
The name struck Arav like a physical blow. The Kala-Pravaha. The malevolent force that had fueled the war, a darkness that fed on fear and despair, twisting men's hearts until they turned on one another. Arav had faced it on that battlefield, had seen its power firsthand, had believed he had destroyed it when he drove his sword into its heart. But the hum… the shadowy resonance… it was too familiar, too precise. It was the sound of the gorge, the sound that had swallowed his friend's final scream.
"Enough," Arav said, rising from his throne. The council fell silent, their eyes wide with surprise. The king rarely interrupted, and never with such intensity. "Where is this village?"
"Kharavati lies beyond the Ashen Hills, Your Majesty," the messenger replied. "A three-day ride, if the roads are clear."
Arav's mind raced. Kharavati was remote, a place untouched by the war's devastation, a place where the old magic still lingered in the soil and stones. If the drum was truly tied to the Kala-Pravaha, it could mean one of two things: either the evil he had fought so hard to vanquish had returned, or… His breath caught at the thought, a hope so fragile he barely dared acknowledge it. Could it be a sign? Could his friend, the one whose music had been his anchor, have somehow survived? The flute in the chest was broken, but what if its melody could be restored?
"Prepare my horses," Arav commanded, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "And my best swords. I ride for Kharavati at dawn."
The council exchanged uneasy glances. "Your Majesty," ventured Lady Smera, a scholar with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, "surely this is a matter for scouts or envoys. A king does not ride to chase village rumors."
"This is no rumor," Arav said, his tone final. "I will see this drum myself."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like dust. The messenger bowed and retreated, and the council dispersed, their whispers trailing behind them. Arav remained in the throne room, alone once more, his gaze fixed on the tapestry that concealed the door to his private chamber. The flute was there, waiting, its silence louder than any drum.
He returned to the chamber, unlocking the chest with hands that no longer trembled. The flute lay as it always did, broken and lifeless, but tonight, it seemed to pulse with a faint energy, as if it sensed the drum's call. Arav lifted the pieces, holding them to the light, searching for something—anything—that might confirm the impossible hope stirring in his heart. Was it possible? Could the music return, could the past be undone?
The moonlight spilled through a crack in the wall, catching the flute's surface, and for a moment, Arav swore he saw a flicker of red—a tunic, a memory, a promise. He closed his eyes, the weight of sixteen years pressing against him, and made a silent vow. He would ride to Kharavati. He would face the drum, the hum, the shadow. And if it was the Kala-Pravaha, he would destroy it again. But if it was something else—if it was a sign, a whisper of the friend he had lost—then he would chase it to the ends of the earth.
In the end we saw a image of the broken flute, its pieces cradled in the king's hands, a silent question hanging in the air: could an impossible melody be played once more?