The name had followed him like a shadow.
Ash-Born. The cursed one. The boy who rose from ruin. To the villagers, it had meant fear. To the priests, it meant rebellion. To the gods—an echo of something they thought was buried.
But Aarav had never claimed it.
Not until now.
After the square incident, he walked through Asthimat Nagar like a breeze that had tasted fire. No longer hiding. No longer drifting. The people didn't speak to him, but they watched. And when he passed, they stood a little straighter.
Pagal Baba had once said: "You are not born from fire. You are what remains when fire fails to consume."
Ash.
And now, the people began to whisper that name with something new behind it: hope.
That evening, an old woman approached Aarav at the edge of the ruined shrine.
She wore no priestly robes. No jewelry. Just a torn sari and a spine that refused to bend.
"You carry the mark," she said, nodding to his palm. "And the weight. But not the name."
"I have a name," Aarav said.
"No. You have a label. A name is something you earn."
She pulled a clay pot from her satchel and painted a single line of red across his brow.
"Your path is not to follow. It is to ignite."
From that moment, the people stopped calling him 'Ash-Born' with fear.
They called him Aarav the Flamewalker.
The one who walks where fire once failed.