The storm came the night Mukul was born.
Thunder rolled across the skies, and lightning clawed the heavens as if the world itself trembled in anticipation. The air inside the quiet farmhouse where Meera had taken refuge grew thick, charged with an energy that even the most untrained could sense.
Aditya Varma and Kabir Rathore, the two great masters who had reluctantly set aside their rivalry for their wives and unborn children, stood outside the chamber, faces tense. Their wives, Ishita and Anaya, held Meera's trembling hands as she cried out in pain.
"Something is different," Ishita whispered, feeling the unnatural surge in the air. "This child… he carries a weight beyond mortals."
Anaya's eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, fear flickered across her face. "No, Ishita… not weight. Power."
When the cry of the newborn finally pierced the storm, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The storm halted. Raindrops froze midair for the briefest instant before falling once more. The flame of every candle in the room bent toward the infant, bowing as if in reverence.
Aditya Varma, entering at last, looked upon the child and felt a chill crawl down his spine. "This boy… his spirit bends nature itself." His voice trembled, though he tried to hide it.
Kabir Rathore, his old rival, clenched his fists. "Or perhaps," he said darkly, "nature fears him."
Meera, exhausted but radiant, pulled her newborn close. "Mukul," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "You are my light… my hope."
But as the boy's small hand brushed her cheek, a strange mark shimmered faintly upon his skin—a sigil neither master recognized, pulsing like fire beneath the flesh.
The air thickened again. The wooden beams of the house groaned. And for a heartbeat, both masters saw a vision in their minds: cities aflame, armies bowing, shadows and light locked in battle.
Both men drew back, shaken to their core.
"This child," Aditya said slowly, "is the heir of something greater than either of our orders. He is both a blessing and… a curse."
Kabir's eyes hardened. "If his power awakens uncontrolled, he could shatter the balance of the world. Even we may not survive him."
Yet their wives—linked by blood, bound by love—smiled softly as they looked at the infant.
"No matter his destiny," Ishita said, her voice like steel wrapped in silk, "he is still just a child. And children must be loved before they are feared."
Anaya nodded. "Let us raise ours beside him. If the world trembles at his power, then we will be the ones to teach him how to stand tall within it."
That night, as Meera cradled Mukul close, lightning danced silently across the horizon, like a crown laid upon the sky.
The masters stood together outside, no longer rivals but uneasy allies, for both had seen the truth.
Mukul Ahir was no ordinary child.
He was the fulcrum of destiny—the one whose birth would either save the world… or destroy it.