The world held its breath on the night of the winter solstice. In the grand, stone halls of the Volkov estate, a child was born, and the family's ancient mages shook their heads in dismay. He was a fragile thing, his skin as pale as the snow outside, and his cries were no more than a whisper. They named him Mehandi, but the name, meant to signify "blessing," felt more like a burden. His parents, the great mages of the Volkov line, watched him with a love that was tainted by deep-seated disappointment. They had hoped for a son whose magic would roar like a bonfire, but Mehandi's aura was a mere flicker against the immense power of his brothers, Leo and Ivan.
From the shadows, Leo, the eldest, with a flame-colored aura, scoffed. "He's nothing," he muttered to his brother, Ivan. "A disgrace to the family." Ivan, whose hands already hummed with the power of the earth, nodded in grim agreement. They were the true heirs, the rightful masters of the Volkov legacy. They saw Mehandi not as a brother, but as a liability—a weak link in a powerful chain they were so desperate to forge.
Mehandi, however, was content. He found solace in the quiet corners of the estate, where the magic of the land was pure and untainted by human ambition. He learned to listen to the whispers of the wind and the secrets of the ancient trees. He was a gentle boy, content with his solitude, a stark contrast to his brothers' cruel jests and relentless pursuit of power. As his parents aged, their power and patience thinned, and Leo and Ivan saw their opportunity. The vast Volkov estate, with its ancient forests and arcane libraries, was a prize too great to share with a boy who seemed destined to simply fade away. They began to whisper, to plot, their cruelties masked by feigned concern for his delicate health. The "mysterious illness" that eventually took Mehandi's life was not a sickness at all, but a final, calculated act of betrayal. A slow-acting poison, disguised as a daily tonic to strengthen his weak body, was administered. The boy, trusting and naive, drank it without question, each sip a quiet act of violence that brought him closer to the fate his brothers had so carefully planned.
The funeral was a quiet affair. His body, cold and limp, was laid to rest in a small plot on the family grounds. The brothers, in a masterful act of hypocrisy, wept publicly, their faces twisted in a caricature of grief. They spoke of the tragedy of losing their dear, frail brother, all while their hearts beat with triumphant ambition. The family's loyal servants, heartbroken, saw through the act but were too afraid to speak. The brothers, now the sole heirs, wasted no time in seizing control of the estate, believing Mehandi to be a forgotten chapter, a nuisance they had neatly disposed of.
But little did they know that the earth they had laid him in was not his final resting place, but a cocoon for something far more powerful. On the third anniversary of Mehandi's "death," the heavens tore open. A brilliant, white-hot meteor streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of shimmering light in its wake. It plunged into the earth, a cosmic tear in the night, shuddering a deep and ancient rhythm that only one soul could hear. Leo and Ivan, in their greed, raced to claim the energy, but they failed. The star's power was meant for another.
In the silence of the grave, Mehandi's eyes fluttered open. The star's energy had pierced through the veil of death and found the one pure soul it could resonate with. A feeling of intense, living power surged through his body, not as a learned skill, but as a part of him. He was no longer the frail boy who had died. He was the embodiment of nature's quiet, unstoppable strength. An ancient voice, serene and patient, echoed in his mind, revealing his brothers' betrayal and the true nature of the magic they had sought to destroy. He had been chosen not for his strength, but for his innocence. With a newfound power and a righteous resolve, Mehandi rose from his grave, prepared to reclaim his legacy.