The celebration of Vasane Devi, once marked by joy and elaborate rituals, was especially vibrant this year in the village of Migase. The thunder of music, the cheers of the people, and the thick scent of liquor in the air merged into one grand festivity. The villagers, drenched in sweat and drunk with merriment, honored the Sea Goddess with light hearts. They feasted and danced, celebrating life, their bodies swaying with intoxication and cheer.
But amid the raucous joy, a single message pierced through the revelry like a dagger: a warning from the cliff guards brought the celebration to an abrupt halt. Hundreds of Balevad troops had been spotted approaching. In an instant, the laughter that once shook the sky turned into hushed whispers of fear. Most of Migase's soldiers, still under the spell of drink, sobered quickly. Yet their confidence remained unwavering. In their minds, victory was already theirs. Migase's forces, numbering over five hundred, were a mix of hardened warriors—some recently returned from the Guava Valley—and battle-ready women trained under Yara's strict guidance. They were united by one goal: to destroy the Balevad army that had once enslaved them.
Bala, commander of Migase's forces, stood resolute. His eyes sparkled with intensity as he looked at Minora, his beloved, who approached him with a sword and belt in hand."My love," Bala said, his voice deep and resolute, "I will go to war. I will bring you the heads of the Balevad dogs who once imprisoned you. They will know the price of crossing us."
Minora, her gaze burning with the same vengeance, flung the belt around Bala's waist and tied it tight."Yes, my love. Destroy them for me. I despise those black-hearted scum. Cut them down—make them feel what they've done to us."
Fueled by those words, Bala and his army marched toward the Kavusi cliffs. Many of them were once slaves of Guava Valley, but those days were long gone. They were no longer broken men and women. They were warriors now—burning with rage and a thirst for retribution. Every step they took across the earth was filled with the weight of vengeance. There was no turning back. They were headed for war.
When they reached the Kavusi cliffs, the sight before them was chilling. The Balevad forces were already assembled, perfectly organized and ready. Daguda, the famed Balevad commander known for his bravery, surveyed the Migase ranks with a calm, confident glare. To him, fighting inland tribes had never posed much of a challenge. His troops were well-trained, better equipped, and armed with more advanced weaponry. Crushing a tribe like Migase, he believed, would be a simple task. They weren't trained for coordinated warfare. Their arms were crude. Victory, he thought, was nearly guaranteed.
Yet something unsettled him. The Migase before him were not the same feeble tribe from before. They carried better weapons. Their numbers had swelled. And though Daguda's face wore confidence, a flicker of unease lingered in his eyes. Something about them was different—more fearsome than he remembered.
With a heavy heart, Daguda gazed upon his enemy, realizing this battle would not be easy. It wasn't just a clash of armies—it was a battle for the future. On the other side, Bala, driven by unshakable will, led his people into a field destined to be soaked in blood. On this day, there would be no retreat.
The war between Bala's and Daguda's forces erupted with fury, blood, and unrelenting violence. The Migase warriors—many of whom were once enslaved—now fought with a fervor sharpened by hatred and a need for justice. Bala charged at the front, fearless, even though most of his army lacked formal battlefield experience. Still, their numbers, their relentless thirst for vengeance, and the added strength of Yara's elite warrior-women gave them incredible power. It didn't take long before the Balevad lines began to waver.
The Migase, once seen as weak and fragile, fought with a courage that stunned even the most seasoned Balevad veterans. Their assault was fierce, and their anger unstoppable. For all the training and equipment the Balevad possessed, they couldn't withstand the fury blazing in the hearts of the Migase warriors. One by one, some of Balevad's most powerful fighters fell beneath Migase blades, and for the first time, Daguda felt the chill of real fear.
Yet the battle was far from one-sided. Both armies bled. The ground turned red. And though the Balevad were more experienced, they couldn't easily crush the Migase. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the screams of battle gave way to silence. Exhaustion hung in the air like smoke. The two sides, once locked in vicious combat, now stood frozen in fatigue.
Daguda, unable to hide his disappointment, began to realize victory wouldn't come easily. Despite his superior tactics and arms, the Migase refused to fall. His certainty began to crack. In the end, he decided to wait for reinforcements—the arrival of Billok's troops, which he hoped would tip the scales.
But fate had other plans.
Billok's forces, instead of taking the safer route, chose a more perilous one—climbing the steep cliffs that led them dangerously close to the unguarded Migase valley. Many of their soldiers fell to their deaths, but the gamble paid off. Without resistance, they descended into the heart of Migase. Flames rose into the twilight sky as homes burned, and the blood of innocents flooded the village paths.
The Billok forces, merciless and savage, slaughtered every adult they encountered. The children who survived were taken as slaves, while the elderly and teenagers were butchered with horrifying brutality. The once peaceful and vibrant valley now lay in ruin—an ocean of fire and corpses. Minora, realizing that the Balevad army had reached the village, fell back into her survival instincts, reverting to the only mask that had ever saved her: that of the wild, seductive survivor. Though her life was spared, her body became a battlefield—she was raped without mercy by the Balevad soldiers, stripped of everything she once held dear, left with nothing but unimaginable suffering.
She was not alone.
Praniyen, the mother of Bala's children, met the same fate—violated, then murdered with ruthless cruelty. All of it happened before the eyes of her youngest son, Balaraniyan, who hid silently among the fronds of a tall coconut tree, watching the world he knew collapse into ashes.
As the flames devoured what was left of Migase, Balaraniyan's spirit shattered. The sorrow that surged within him was not passive—it burned. It twisted. It became hatred. When he saw his mother fall, and the villagers massacred, vengeance anchored itself into his soul. He knew that one day, he would raise an army, an unstoppable force, and rain retribution upon the monsters who had stolen everything. He hoped, in silent desperation, that his father Bala would return in time to make them bleed for every drop they had spilled.
Back at the cliffside battlefield, the clash between Bala's forces and the Balevad army had reached a devastating standstill. Both sides had suffered heavy losses, and neither could claim a decisive victory. Daguda, still waiting for the arrival of Billok's reinforcements, eventually conceded that they would not come—not in time. His pride tarnished, and his confidence frayed, he ordered his troops to retreat.
Bala and his warriors, though wounded and weary, did the same. They did not retreat in defeat, but in mourning. The ground they had fought on was soaked in blood, littered with fallen brothers and sisters. Yet for Bala, it was a bittersweet victory. They had proven their worth—not just as survivors, but as warriors who could stand tall even without the guidance of their king, Rogg. They had fought for their own.
Bala looked over the remnants of his army. Most were scarred, many bleeding, all exhausted—but none bowed their heads. These were the once-enslaved, the forgotten people of Migase. Now, they walked tall. Now, they sang with the pride of those who had faced death and endured. Their return march toward the valley was not one of defeat, but of hope reclaimed.
Until they saw the smoke.
Dark plumes curled into the sky like fingers of dread, blackening the horizon. Bala's heart tightened in his chest. A dread, slow and suffocating, began to rise within him. Something was wrong.
He quickened his pace, urging the others forward, deeper into the thickening air of ash and silence. The closer they came, the heavier the air felt, as if the earth itself resisted their approach. Where once the air was filled with laughter and the chatter of children, now there was nothing but stillness—a choking silence that screamed of death.
Bala's heart pounded harder with every step. Where were the voices of the women preparing food? Where were the children who ran barefoot through the fields?
Then he saw them.
Bodies.
They lay scattered in the dirt, limbs twisted, eyes frozen in terror. Blood had soaked the ground, turning the soil into mud. Smoke still billowed from the remains of homes, reduced now to ash and broken stone. The village—his home—was gone.
"Praniyen!" Bala screamed, the name tearing from his throat like a blade. Panic flooded his veins. His legs moved faster, heart pounding in his ears. He pushed past rubble, searching for her—hoping, praying. But what he found instead was silence. Death.
The joy of their hard-fought victory had crumbled to dust. This was not a homecoming. This was not a return. It was an awakening into a new war—one far more personal, far more devastating.
There were no words among the survivors. They moved like shadows among the ruins, stepping through the remnants of what had once been their lives. Migase, the valley of laughter and song, had become a graveyard.
The battle, Bala realized, was far from over. What they had won on the cliffs meant nothing now. Everything had been taken from them. Everything had burned.
Bala stood frozen, staring at the destruction before him, as if his body were shackled by a nightmare from which he could not wake. His heart shattered; a pain so deep gnawed at his soul. All the sacrifices they had made, the battles they had fought, seemed to be crushed in an instant. There was nothing left. No home to return to. No shelter to protect them. They had lost—and they knew there was no path left to retreat.
But there was no time to grieve. They were too close to their own annihilation. From the shadows of destruction, the forces of Billok emerged—silent, ruthless, and monstrous. Billok, a commander feared for his unmatched brutality, now stood before them with his legion, surrounding them like wolves that had long stalked their prey. There was no mercy in their eyes—only the cold fire of cruelty.
Bala and his soldiers were trapped in the clutches of death. They knew they could not escape. They knew this was the end. Their resistance meant nothing now. Billok's army descended upon them with unimaginable savagery. There was no humanity, no forgiveness—only slaughter. The Migase warriors, already wounded and exhausted, were torn apart, one by one, by the merciless blades of death.
Bala, covered in wounds and blood, eventually collapsed to the ground. As life slipped from his body, the peak of Billok's cruelty came. With a single, brutal slash, Bala's head was severed from his body. Dark crimson blood poured onto the scorched earth, soaking into a land already desecrated by fire and torment. His once-proud frame—symbol of hope and defiance—was wrapped in coarse cloth and dragged away, a trophy for the nightmare that was Billok.
But an even deeper sorrow gripped Bala's soul in his final moments—he saw his son, Baluru, running toward him with desperate hope. That fragile thread of innocence was torn apart in an instant. The soldiers of Billok didn't just kill Bala—they destroyed his legacy. Baluru, trembling and screaming, tried to reach his father's lifeless body. But before he could, blades pierced his tiny frame again and again. Each stab was a death knell, not just for a child, but for the remnants of a people.
Blood poured like a river from Baluru's body, staining the soil already drowned in sorrow. The soldiers then hung his lifeless form beside his father's severed head—a horrific monument to their violence. The image would haunt the survivors forever: a father's head, a child's corpse, swinging beneath a sky that seemed to mourn in silence.
In that silence, there was a scream that could not be heard. A cry of souls shattered by loss. The world they had known, the one they had fought for with every beat of their hearts, had now turned into a massacre of blood and ash. Billok's cruelty had stolen everything, leaving behind only emptiness and pain.
And though the battle was over, the wound left by Billok's hand would never heal. Migase had fallen.