[A memory, long buried in ash, flickers to life — distant, fragile, aching.]
The scent of burning sandalwood filled the courtyard.
A child's laughter echoed between stone pillars, soft and innocent.
Vayodhra, no older than ten, chased a glowing butterfly of golden light while his mother watched from the steps, a serene smile lighting her face.
"Careful, my little storm," she said, her voice tender as the breeze. "You'll frighten it away."
Vayodhra laughed, eyes shimmering with joy. "But it shines like the sun, mother! Maybe it's a spirit!"
From behind, a man's deep voice joined, calm yet commanding.
"Then treat it with reverence, son. Even the smallest spirit carries a spark of creation."
Vayodhra turned. His father stood tall in a faded crimson robe, hands rough with labor yet his eyes—gentle, wise, and filled with something the boy didn't yet understand.
He crouched, placing a calloused hand over Vayodhra's chest.
"Here," he said softly, tapping the boy's heart. "There's a flame in you, Vayodhra. One day, it'll burn brighter than the stars... or destroy everything around you."
The boy blinked in confusion. His father just smiled, stood, and ruffled his hair.
"You'll understand one day, my son."
[A brief silence... then the world trembled.]
The skies darkened that evening without warning. Ravens gathered upon the roof, whispering in tongues no man knew.
The air thickened — even the shadows seemed to breathe.
His mother's expression faltered. "It's too soon…" she murmured.
"Take him inside," his father said sharply, eyes fixed on the northern woods. "Don't open the door until I return."
"Wait—Father! What's in the woods?" Vayodhra asked, clutching the man's robe.
But his father only smiled that same strange smile — half warmth, half sorrow — before stepping into the mist.
[That was the last time he ever saw him alive.]
The night that followed was a symphony of screams and smoke.
The smell of burnt iron filled the sky. Something came from those woods — something that did not belong to this world.
Vayodhra remembered hiding beneath the temple bell, clutching his mother's lifeless hand, staring blankly at the red reflection of flames in her eyes.
And in that moment, something inside him broke — and something else was born.
Days bled into nights, and the house that had once echoed with warmth now trembled under silence. Vayodhra's mother wandered through the halls, her hands clutching the remnants of prayers, her lips whispering incantations that no longer reached the heavens. Every creak of the door, every shadow in the corner, twisted her hope into fear.
When the temple envoys arrived, their robes gleaming like false stars, their eyes carried venom disguised as authority. They came with proclamations of heresy, accusations of treason against the kingdom, and threats wrapped in divine righteousness. "You shelter the son of the vanished king," they hissed. "You defy the order of dharma itself."
Vayodhra's mother stood tall, her chest heaving, her gaze burning with maternal defiance. "My son is innocent of your lies. Leave, or face the curse you dare awaken," she warned. But the envoys did not flinch—they had already tasted blood.
The massacre began before dawn. The walls shivered with screams, the air thick with smoke and steel. Vayodhra barely had time to react as his mother shoved him behind the altar, taking the brunt of the first strikes. Her body became a shield, her final scream echoing in his ears: "Live… or the darkness will claim you!"
Blood soaked the floor. The house, their sanctuary, burned. Vayodhra's world shattered as he felt the last warmth of her touch vanish into nothingness. His cries were swallowed by the chaos, unanswered, until silence reigned.
Amid the carnage, the ring on his mother's hand, long dormant, pulsed violently. The shadows deepened, curling into shapes that seemed alive. A voice, low and hungry, whispered directly into his mind:
"Vayodhra… awaken… Kaalravan watches… and waits."
The world shifted. Pain fused with power, grief with destiny. The ring—his last tether to a family now gone—throbbed with a dark promise. The whispers of Kaalravan, ancient and malevolent, threaded through his veins, stirring something primordial. A seed of vengeance, of Aghor fury, had been planted.
Vayodhra rose from the ashes, bloodied and broken, yet touched by something far older than kings or temples. The journey of shadows had begun.