Arjun awoke to silence.
Not the comforting quiet of dawn or a soft whisper of wind—but the kind of stillness that presses on the chest, heavy and accusing. His body ached as if the battle had never ended. Blood and dust clung to him, yet when he moved, no wounds remained. It was as though the fire that had consumed the stronghold had spared his flesh, but not his soul.
He tried to recall the last moments before darkness claimed him. Images flashed: Meera's hand slipping from his grasp, Keshav's eyes gleaming with betrayal, the dagger plunging through the night. And then… nothing.
Nothing but emptiness.
Arjun staggered to his feet. The place he found himself in was unfamiliar—a temple carved from black stone, etched with ancient Sanskrit verses glowing faintly in moonlight. The air smelled of incense and something older… something primordial.
He traced a finger over a carving. It depicted a figure wielding a thunderbolt in one hand and a Rudraksha chain in the other, standing over countless defeated foes. A name whispered in his mind: Rudra…
A shiver ran down his spine. He didn't know who Rudra was—not fully—but the image stirred something inside him. A faint pulse of power, locked away but alive, fluttered in his chest.
Footsteps echoed behind him. He spun, instincts sharp despite the haze of memory loss. A cloaked figure emerged, voice calm yet tinged with menace:
"You've awakened," the stranger said. "The veil has accepted you… for now."
Arjun's hands clenched. "Where am I? Who… who are you?"
The figure's laugh was soft, almost pitying. "You know more than you think. The threads of your past tug at you, though you cannot see. Power forgotten is still power. And every shadow remembers."
Shadows moved in the temple, curling like serpents. One seemed to mimic his movements, but with a grace and strength he had never possessed. A fragment of recognition sparked in his mind: this was him—or what he could be.
He fell to his knees. Rage and grief coiled in his chest, a storm waiting to erupt. "I… I failed them. I failed her," he whispered, voice raw.
And then, faintly, a voice unlike his own—soft, almost like a memory of Meera—whispered:
"The soul remembers even when the mind forgets."—Sky Dragonmire
Arjun's eyes burned with a mixture of sorrow and fury. The path ahead was unclear, shrouded in mystery and betrayal, yet one truth glimmered in the shadows: he would reclaim what was lost, piece by piece. And when he did, the world would tremble.