The sky burned red over the valley of Somgarh.
Flames licked the heavens, roaring like lions let loose upon the earth. Smoke coiled in the sky like serpents, wrapping around the sun until it vanished behind a curtain of ash. The land, once green and humming with the songs of birds and the laughter of children, now crackled and wept under the weight of fire and ruin.
In the heart of the chaos, a boy ran.
Barefoot. Bloodied. Breathless.
His name was Veer.
Just nine years old, he had never known fear like this. Not when the thunderstorm shattered their hut roof last monsoon. Not when his mother coughed blood last winter and still smiled for him. Not even when his father went to the hills and never returned.
But this—this was different.
This was death.
The ground split apart behind him, a roar echoing through the valley as if the earth itself cried out in pain. Trees exploded into splinters. Fire rained from the sky. And still, he ran. Past burning huts. Past the half-buried statue of Lord Shiva, now cracked, its third eye glowing faintly through the soot.
Veer stumbled, fell hard against the charred earth, and rolled down a slope. His head slammed against a rock, and the world dimmed, narrowed to a circle of spinning sky.
Then, silence.
Almost.
A faint sound broke through the ringing in his ears—a bell. Not loud, not near. Just... distant and slow, like the ones he heard in the temple during early morning prayers. Ding... dong... ding...
Through half-lidded eyes, he saw something glowing faintly in the mud beside him.
A stone pendant, shaped like a teardrop, engraved with a symbol he didn't recognize. It pulsed once, softly, and then again, like a heartbeat.
He reached out, fingers trembling.
As his skin touched the stone, everything stopped.
The fire.
The wind.
Even the falling ash froze in the air.
A deep voice echoed—not in the sky, not in his ears, but inside him.
> "Child of ash, bearer of silence… You who have no one, shall now hold words that shape the world."
The stone sank into his chest, disappearing without pain, leaving behind a faint mark—like ink written in a language no one spoke anymore.
Then the world returned.
The fire. The noise. The pain.
But Veer was no longer afraid.
He didn't know what had just happened. He didn't understand the voice or the light or the stillness. But in his chest, he felt something awaken—a presence. Something ancient. Something watching.
Something waiting.
Above him, the sky rumbled with thunder again—not from the fire, but a real storm gathering fast. Rain poured down, hissing as it met flame. And in the flash of lightning, Veer saw it again—the half-buried Shiva statue.
This time, its cracked lips almost seemed to smile.
Veer pressed his forehead to the earth, as he had seen his mother do before the shrine every morning. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"Om Namah Shivaya..."
He stood up.
Alone.
Broken.
But alive.
And somewhere in the depths of the storm, fate stirred—for the boy who once had nothing now held the power of words.
And words, whispered by the right soul, could move kings… or make them.