The wind over the Green Valley smelled faintly of pine and wet earth, carrying with it the distant murmur of a mountain stream. If one looked from the ridge above, they might call it peaceful — a swath of emerald stretching between the Blackfang Peaks to the west and the ragged forest to the east. Flowers, yellow and white, nodded gently under the afternoon sun. A shepherd might have sung here, or a poet might have stopped to paint.
Vid did not see beauty.
The valley was too open. Too quiet. And every step he took was heavier than the last. His boots were caked in drying mud; each movement pulled at muscles that screamed for rest. His left arm throbbed, wrapped clumsily in a strip of cloth already stiff with blood. He'd tied it in haste hours ago, not caring if it was tight enough, just enough to keep the red from pouring.
The boy was sixteen, though in the way of Pascha's poorer folk, he looked older — the sun and work had carved hard lines into his face. His black hair hung in sweat-matted clumps, sticking to his forehead. The hilt of his knife, no longer than his forearm, was slick in his right hand. He carried it low, the blade angled outward as if that alone might keep the world at bay.
But the world had already found him.
A crow circled overhead, its shadow flitting across the grass. Vid glanced at it, lips pressed tight. Crows meant carrion. And carrion meant he was not alone in this valley.
He adjusted the leather strap of his small satchel — all that remained of his home's belongings. Inside, nothing of value: a strip of dried meat, a flint stone, and a small wooden talisman carved with the shape of an arrowhead. His father had made it when Vid was a child, telling him that one day it would point him toward his destiny. Now it felt like nothing more than a piece of dead wood.
He shifted his path, skirting the stream, keeping his eyes on the treeline to his left. The forest there was dense, the shadows deep even in daylight. That was Rakshas country — or had been, long before this morning's hell began. The Empire's warriors were hunters as much as soldiers, and the forest gave them their cover. Vid's stomach knotted at the thought of what might be in there.
A crunch of grass behind him froze his steps.
He turned sharply. Nothing. Only the wind and the endless green. He forced himself to breathe — slow, steady — and kept moving. His father had once told him that fear sharpens the ear, makes every rabbit sound like a wolf.
But this was no rabbit.
The sound came again. A low, rolling crack of underbrush, deliberate and heavy. The kind of sound made by something that did not care to be quiet. Vid's heartbeat spiked, the pulse thudding in his ears.
The scent came next — musky, animal, sharp enough to cut through the valley's clean air.
And then he saw it.
The bear emerged from the treeline like a shadow given flesh. Its fur was thick and dark, shot through with streaks of gray. It moved with a kind of slow, assured menace, head low, small eyes locked on him. The beast was scarred — a pale slash across its muzzle, a notch missing from its ear.
Vid stepped back, his heel sinking slightly into soft earth. The knife felt suddenly absurd in his hand, a child's toy against the brute strength of the animal before him.
The bear lifted its head and sniffed the air. Then it growled — a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in Vid's chest.
He tried to remember what the hunters in Green Hollow had said about bears. Do not run. Do not turn your back. Make yourself big. Shout.
But his throat felt dry as dust. His legs wanted to bolt, his body urging him to flee the way a bird flees a shadow.
The bear took a step forward, then another, closing the distance. Each paw landed with a heavy thump that shook the ground.
Vid raised the knife, both hands gripping the hilt now, his feet spreading into the clumsy stance his father had once taught him for cutting meat. His injured arm screamed at the motion.
The bear roared, louder this time, a sound that rolled across the valley like thunder. It charged.
The world seemed to narrow to the pounding of his heart and the blur of motion. The beast was on him in seconds, faster than any story had prepared him for. Its claws flashed, and pain tore across his side — shallow but hot, the kind of wound that burned more than it bled.
Vid stumbled backward, slashing wildly. The blade scraped against fur, too shallow to do more than anger the creature.
He thought of running. He thought of his mother's voice. He thought of the Rakshas. And then —
The valley faded.
Smoke. Screams. Fire.
Twelve hours earlier.
The smell was wrong.
Vid woke to it before he woke to the sound. At first, in that hazy place between sleep and waking, he thought it was the hearth fire gone to coal. But this was sharper, oilier — the way resin burns when you throw a wet pine branch into the flame. Then came the other scent, one that twisted his stomach: scorched meat.
A scream ripped through the night.
Vid's eyes snapped open. The air was already hazy, smoke curling in through the slats of the wooden shutters. He sat up on his straw bed, every nerve alert. More shouting now, not in the soft vowels of Green Hollow, but guttural and harsh — the kind of language his elders spoke of in warning stories.
Rakshas.
His heart thudded against his ribs.
The horn blew.
It was a sound like no other — deep, mournful, and heavy, as if the earth itself was groaning. Vid had heard it once before, from far away in the hills, when hunters told of a Rakshas war party passing through. Hearing it here, in his village, was different. It was like the horn was inside his bones.
He grabbed for the knife his father had left on the table. The hilt was warm from sitting by the hearth.
"Vid!" His mother's voice, hoarse and desperate, from the main room.
He stumbled out of his small sleeping nook to find her shoving a few things into a cloth bag — dried meat, a waterskin, the wooden arrowhead talisman his father had carved for him. Her hair was loose, falling over her face, her eyes wide with terror.
"What's—" he began.
"No time!" She thrust the bag at him. "Go out the back, through the creek."
The door burst inward.
Two men filled the doorway — if they were men at all. They wore black armor shaped like layered scales, their shoulders and helms jagged with spikes. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved like snarling beasts, the eye slits glowing faintly from some hidden fire within.
One carried a spear with a hooked blade; the other held a curved sword whose edge gleamed orange in the firelight.
The masked one with the sword spoke first, in the Rakshas tongue. Vid didn't know the words, but the tone was clear — mocking, amused.
His mother stepped in front of him. "He's just a boy," she said, voice shaking.
The spear-bearer lunged.
Vid's mother shoved him toward the window. "Run!"
He hit the sill hard, splinters biting his palms, and tumbled into the cold night air. The ground outside was wet from the earlier rain, mud sucking at his feet as he scrambled toward the creek. Behind him, the sounds were muffled but clear — a scuffle, a choked cry, and the heavy crash of something falling.
He didn't look back.
The village was chaos. Thatched roofs burned like dry grass, sending embers spiraling into the dark sky. Figures ran between the houses — some villagers, some Rakshas soldiers. A child cried somewhere close, the sound cut off abruptly.
Vid kept low, weaving between fences and chicken coops. A shadow loomed — another Rakshas, this one dragging a screaming woman by her hair. The soldier glanced up and saw him.
Vid bolted.
The Rakshas laughed, a deep, cruel sound, and gave chase.
He hit the creek's edge, slipping on moss-slick stones. Cold water soaked his trousers as he splashed across. His breath came in ragged gasps. He could hear the soldier behind him, boots slamming into the mud, spear haft clattering against armor.
On the far side, Vid plunged into the tall grass, heart hammering. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter. When he finally dared to stop, he was deep in the meadow beyond the village.
The night was quiet here. Too quiet.
He sank to his knees, gripping the knife so tightly his knuckles ached. The fires still burned behind him, turning the sky an angry red. Smoke drifted over the meadow, acrid and heavy.
Somewhere out there, the Rakshas would come again. Not just for Green Hollow, but for every village in their path. He had heard the elders speak of the empires — ten great powers and a hundred lesser kingdoms, all selfish, all fighting endless wars for land and gold. None would help each other unless it served their own greed.
If no one stood against them, they would eat Pascha piece by piece until nothing remained.
He thought of the old stories — of gods who once walked the land, gifting warriors the power of astras, weapons born from the heavens themselves. The elders said those gods were gone, their gifts lost to time.
But maybe, just maybe, that was a lie.
And if even one god still lived, Vid would find them.
The bear's paw slammed into Vid's chest like a hammer.
The air blasted from his lungs. His feet left the ground, and the world spun — sky, valley, trees — before his back smashed into a thick pine trunk. Bark bit into his skin, and pain shot through his ribs. The knife tumbled from his grasp into the grass.
His vision blurred, dark at the edges. The bear was already turning, massive shoulders rolling as it stalked toward him. Its breath steamed in the cool air, each exhale a hot cloud.
Vid tried to push himself up. His arm trembled, his legs felt like lead. His voice came out raw, cracked:
"Gods… please. Stop them… stop all of this… help me!"
No answer came.
The bear reared back, front paws lifting from the ground, its shadow falling over him like a curtain.
And then — a voice, deep and clear, cutting through the valley:
"I shall call… the Infinite Astra of Samanya Nara."
A light flared, sudden and sharp, from somewhere beyond the trees. It wasn't the glow of fire or sunlight, but a pure, searing brilliance — shaped like an arrow. The arrow itself seemed made of energy, its shaft humming with power, its head tapering to a point of white fire.
It whistled through the air, moving faster than Vid's eyes could follow.
The bear's roar was cut short by the impact. The arrow struck deep into its chest, and for a heartbeat, the beast froze — as though the world itself had stopped. Then, a ripple of light spread out from the wound, washing over its fur in patterns like flowing water.
When the light faded, the bear collapsed. Steam curled from the wound. The air smelled faintly of ozone, as if lightning had struck.
From the treeline stepped an old man. His beard was long and silver, his hair tied back in a thick knot. His clothes were travel-worn leathers, but the bow in his right hand was unlike any Vid had seen — long and heavy, carved from dark wood with intricate patterns burned into the surface. It seemed impossibly solid, as though it could weather centuries.
The old man moved without haste, stepping to the bear, drawing another arrow from the quiver at his back. But this arrow was of wood and steel, not light. With practiced ease, he placed the shaft to the string, drew, and sent it through the beast's heart.
The bear gave one final shudder and went still.
Vid's vision swam. He tried to speak, but only managed a whisper:
"Lord… Vishwa…"
The old man didn't answer. He strode forward, slinging the bow over his shoulder. Then, without a word, he lifted Vid as if he weighed nothing and set him across his own shoulder.
The boy's head lolled, his gaze catching the bow again — how the carvings seemed to shift with the light, how its grip bore the smooth polish of a thousand draws. Only a god could wield such a thing, Vid thought, before darkness claimed him.
Later…
Vid woke to the sound of crackling fire and the scent of cooking meat. His body ached everywhere, but the warmth of the flames softened the pain. He blinked up at a canopy of branches — the fire's light flickering over pine needles above.
The old man sat by the fire, cleaning the great bow with a cloth.
Vid pushed himself up slowly. "You… are you the god Vishwa? The Prabram?"
The old man glanced at him, one brow raised. "No. I am a mere archer, son." He turned back to the bow, running his fingers along its curve. "A master of archery, yes. But no god."
Vid frowned. "Then who…?"
"My name is Paras," the man said simply. "And we are just ten kilometers from the Valley of Dand."
At the name, Vid's heart quickened. "We can't stay here. The Rakshas are coming — they've invaded the Boomi Empire!"
Paras paused, looking into the fire. "So it begins, then."
Vid leaned forward. "You don't understand. They won't stop. There are twelve continents — you know this? Five of them are ruled entirely by the greatest empires. Each continent as big as Asia… or bigger. The Boomi Empire rules Pascha, but the Rakshas… they rule Naraga. And they've crossed the sea to get here."
Paras met his gaze at last. His eyes were steady, but there was something old in them — not just in years, but in the weight they carried. "The Rakshas Empire has always wanted more than what they hold. Pascha will not be the last. If they are not stopped, they will take the world."
Vid's fingers tightened on his blanket. "Then… are you going to stop them?"
The old man smiled faintly — a tired smile, without joy. "Perhaps. But if the world is to be saved, it will not be by one archer alone."
He reached into the firelight and held up Vid's small wooden talisman. "You carry this for a reason, boy. Do you know what it is?"
Vid shook his head.
Paras closed his hand around it. "Then perhaps you should learn."
The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows over the camp. Far off in the darkness, somewhere beyond the trees, a horn sounded — deep and mournful.
The Rakshas were on the move.