The smoke from the funeral pyre had long faded, but the sting in Arav's chest still burned like a wound that refused to close. Twelve days had passed since his father's death, yet silence lingered in the home like a curse.
In the corner of the dim hut, Arav sat cross-legged, knees scraped and elbows bruised. His peasant tunic, two sizes too big, hung from his bony shoulders. The only remnants of warmth he remembered were from his father's chants — deep, rumbling mantras that vibrated through the earth itself. Now, only the cold remained.
Outside, he heard laughter. Not the kind that warms the soul, but cruel and sharp.
"Hey orphan! You still playing with dirt? Your father's mantras didn't save him, did they?"
Arav didn't look up. His cousin Bheem, heavier and stronger, stepped into the yard with two others. Dust swirled around their feet.
Bheem grabbed Arav by the tunic, yanking him up. "Say something! Or do you chant to trees now, just like your mad father?"
Arav's fists clenched, but he said nothing.
Then, the slap. Sharp. Immediate. His vision blurred.
That night, he didn't return home. He wandered into the forest — the same one his father warned him about. The moonlight filtered through the banyan leaves, casting sacred patterns on the earth. Something drew him toward the ancient Peepal tree, its trunk twisted with age and reverence.
He fell to his knees beneath it, tears tracing the dirt on his cheeks. "Why did you leave me?"
Then — a flicker.
A soft hum rose from the roots. The earth vibrated beneath his palm. He pulled back the soil, slowly, cautiously. His fingers touched something cold.
A ring. Bronze, weathered, and humming with energy. Sanskrit inscriptions ran along its band, pulsing with soft light.
The moment he touched it, his breath caught. Visions — fire, chants, a throne of ash.
Then a voice, soft and feminine, echoed within him:
"At last, you have returned to me."
And everything went black.