The land remembered him in whispers.
In the age before memory, when kingdoms rose and fell like the tides of the sea, there was a king named Drona. His name carried the weight of storms. His crown was forged not of gold but of conquest, and his throne was upheld by bones. Mothers hushed their children with his name, soldiers muttered prayers against it, and bards sang not in praise but in fear.
For Drona was not a ruler—he was a scourge.
He knew no mercy, no softness, no warmth. His armies marched like fire across the land, leaving ash where harvests once grew. Cities burned because he willed it, men knelt because he demanded it, and none dared question him for long.
And yet, in the cracks of his cruelty, something unexpected stirred.
He saw her.
Her name was Anaya. She was no queen, no priestess, no bearer of jewels. She was ordinary by the measure of kings—daughter of a cloth dyer, hands rough from work, face marked not by luxury but by sun and wind. Yet she carried a light that unsettled Drona more than any army ever had.
When she smiled, the air seemed to still. When she spoke, even sparrows tilted their heads as if to listen. She did not bow when he came to her village. She did not tremble when his shadow fell across her doorway. She looked at him, and what he saw in her eyes was not fear.
It was pity.
Drona could command a thousand swords, yet in that moment he felt powerless. For the first time, he wanted something he could not take by decree, could not seize by force. He wanted her.
"I can make you queen of the world," he told her one night, his voice low, dangerous, the kind of voice that had condemned nations. "I can raise you above all women. Tell me what jewel you desire, and I will tear it from the earth for you."
But Anaya only shook her head. "What are jewels," she said softly, "if the hands that give them are drenched in blood?"
Her words cut deeper than any blade.
---
Still, Drona tried. He pardoned men he once would have executed. He spared cities that deserved no mercy. He forced smiles he had never known how to wear. But cruelty was not a garment he could strip away. It was his marrow, his nature. A beast does not become gentle by pretending to be tame.
And Anaya saw through him.
Her heart turned not to Drona, but to another. A simple man, strong not in battle but in patience. His name was Taron. He was a farmer, hands calloused by plows, back bent by harvests, eyes warm as summer rain. Where Drona devoured, Taron nurtured. Where Drona demanded, Taron offered.
Anaya chose him.
Drona, for the first time in his life, knew rejection.
---
The night he learned of their love, he sat alone in his great hall. Torches flickered against cold stone, their flames too small to chase away the weight pressing against his chest. His crown lay heavy in his lap, and his sword gleamed beside it.
He laughed once—a bitter sound, jagged, broken. His generals dared not look at him. His servants shrank into shadows.
"Power," he whispered to the empty hall, "and still I am less than a man who tills the earth."
He thought of Anaya's eyes, turning away from him. He thought of Taron's hand in hers. He thought of his own hands—hands that had broken men, leveled cities, gripped crowns—and how they had never once been gentle.
The sword felt cold in his grasp. His reflection warped in the steel. His voice cracked as he spoke a final truth, not as king, not as conqueror, but as a man.
"I wish I was born a good person."
And with that, the blade fell.
The crown clattered to stone.
The storm that was Drona ended not on a battlefield, but in silence, in blood, and in longing.
---
But the heavens had been watching.
Above the world, where stars hung like lanterns in the void, the gods stirred. Their voices were not like human voices—they were thunder, wind, and river-song—but their meaning was clear.
"Did you hear his last words?" asked one, sorrow lacing her tone.
"He was ruthless," replied another, stern and old.
"He was made ruthless," the first countered. "Born into blood, carved by fate. Is that justice?"
"He wished to be good," murmured a third, younger than the rest. "Perhaps we should grant him this."
The eldest god rumbled like shifting mountains. "The Almighty forbids interference. Mortal lives must walk their course."
But pity is a dangerous seed, even among the divine.
"If he could remember," one whispered, "he might not fall again. If he could recall what cruelty cost him, perhaps he would change."
"To return memory is no small act," warned another. "It requires sacrifice. One of us must fall."
Silence thickened like fog. Then a voice, trembling but resolute, broke it:
"Then let it be me. Let my end be his beginning. If he longs for goodness, let my death give him the chance."
And so the gods agreed.
Far from the Almighty's gaze, they began the ritual. The stars themselves dimmed, as if the heavens mourned. One god laid himself upon the altar of eternity. His name burned bright, then vanished into ash. His essence unraveled into light, which fell like rain upon the mortal coil where Drona's soul drifted.
The price was paid.
---
And so, in a hospital centuries later, a boy opened his eyes for the first time.
His parents named him Rune.
He grew with kindness where Drona had grown with cruelty. He shared toys, spoke gently, gave freely. Neighbors whispered he was too soft for this world, but they loved him all the same. Rune was no storm. He was sunlight.
In another corner of the world, Anaya was reborn as Mira—her laughter still the same, her heart still drawn to love. And Taron walked again as Kian—but no longer patient or humble. He was sharp, arrogant, a bully cloaked in charm.
And when Rune's gentle eyes found Mira, his heart stirred with hope.
But fate is cruel. Mira's gaze turned elsewhere, drawn once again to the wrong man.
And Rune, watching her fall into Kian's arms, clenched his fists and whispered the words that made the heavens tremble:
"I wish I was bad… as him."
And the gods, who had pitied once before, felt dread coil in their hearts.