Kunal sat in the dim glow of his desk lamp, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the wooden surface. The rain continued to pour outside, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that mirrored the storm within his mind. His conversation with Ananya earlier had done little to settle the unease that had taken root in his chest. Instead, it had only fanned the flames of curiosity—and something else. Dread.
He stared at the ancient script on his laptop screen, the same script he had instinctively translated without effort. It was a royal decree, issued by Emperor Ashoka himself. But what caught his breath was the name etched within the text.
Kunala.
His heart pounded. This was no longer just a bizarre coincidence or an overactive imagination. The more he researched, the more he realized that the fragments of memories creeping into his mind were real. But why now? Why him?
A sharp gust of wind rattled the window, and in an instant, he was no longer in his apartment.
---
The scent of sandalwood and oil lamps filled his nostrils. He stood within the grand halls of Pataliputra, the Mauryan capital. The marble floors beneath his bare feet felt cold, and the golden pillars reflected the flickering flames of torches. He could hear whispers—sharp, urgent voices carrying words of treachery and deceit.
"He is too much like his father."
"His ideals threaten the balance of power."
"We must act before the Emperor's sight returns."
Kunal—no, Kunala—felt his breath hitch. He turned toward the voices and saw a group of courtiers, their faces obscured by shadow. But amidst them, one figure stood apart, her presence like a knife to his chest.
Tishyaraksha.
His stepmother. The woman who had betrayed him.
Her gaze met his, and for a moment, he saw something that unsettled him more than her cold, calculating expression—regret. But it was fleeting, lost in the smirk that followed as she turned away.
Then came the pain. Searing, blinding agony. His vision darkened as unseen hands dragged him away, the world spinning into oblivion.
---
Kunal jolted awake, gasping for air. His fingers dug into the fabric of his chair as his mind struggled to grasp what he had just witnessed. It was more than a dream—it was a memory. His memory.
His phone buzzed violently on the desk, snapping him back to the present. Ananya's name flashed on the screen.
"Ananya," he exhaled, picking up the call. "I—"
"You need to see this." Her voice was hurried, almost breathless. "I found something. Meet me at the library in thirty minutes."
Without hesitation, Kunal grabbed his coat and dashed out of the apartment. The streets of Mumbai were slick with rain, neon lights reflecting on the wet pavement as he maneuvered through the night's chaos. The local train ride to Andheri was a blur, his mind still trapped between timelines, the echoes of betrayal still fresh in his veins.
By the time he reached the library, Ananya was already inside, buried in a stack of books and old manuscripts. She looked up as he approached, eyes wide with urgency.
"What did you find?" he asked, his voice lower than intended.
She slid a book across the table. The cover was worn, the edges frayed with age. "This. It mentions Kunala."
Kunal hesitated before flipping through the fragile pages. The moment his eyes landed on the passage, the world tilted.
Kunala, son of Ashoka, rightful heir to the Mauryan throne, was blinded through treachery. His exile was orchestrated by those closest to him. Yet, the heavens wove fate anew, and his soul would not rest until justice was served.
His fingers trembled.
"This isn't just history, Ananya." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It's my past."
She didn't look surprised. Instead, she simply nodded. "Then we need to find out why it's resurfacing now."
A sharp shiver crawled down Kunal's spine. He had a feeling they were about to uncover something far bigger than either of them had anticipated.