The sun over Kalyagarh bled into the horizon like a wound, casting long shadows from the domes and minarets of the ancient fortress. Bells rang from the Temple of Surya, echoing across the stone courtyards as priests lit the evening fire. From afar, the fortress appeared serene—majestic even. But within its walls, blood had not yet dried.

Arendra Rajput stood at the edge of the Inner Bastion, a place once sacred, now defiled. His hands were bruised, his knuckles cracked, and his blade—Vajranand, forged with meteorite and ancestral chants—dripped crimson. At his feet lay the last of the palace guards, loyal not to the kingdom but to the traitor who had ordered the massacre of Arendra’s bloodline.

He was no longer the Prince of Kalyagarh, no longer the scholar-warrior the sages called Shituu in endearment. He was a fugitive of fate, cloaked in fire and grief, son of a slain king and bearer of a vengeance older than prophecy.

Arendra looked down at the body of General Bhimadatta, the man who had once taught him how to wield a spear. The betrayal was bitterer than poison. “Why?” he whispered, though he knew no answer would rise from that lifeless mouth.

The palace trembled behind him—columns cracked under the weight of rebellion, and a smoky haze wafted from the once-holy archives, now set ablaze. Somewhere within, the scriptures of his ancestors curled into ash.

He turned away.

There was no time for mourning.

The Oracle’s Warning

It had started seven days ago, during the festival of Ratha Mahotsav, when golden chariots paraded through the streets and petals rained from balconies. Arendra, still known as Shituu then, had stood beside his father, King Vardhan Rajput, atop the Elephant Pavilion, waving at a people who adored him. The air had been filled with chants of “Jay Rajputana!” and the sky had smiled.

But beneath that smile, the serpent coiled.

That night, the stars went silent.

In the deepest sanctum of Tavistaan Monastery, where only truth dared to whisper, the oracle priestess Maarya, aged but unshaken, fell into a trance. Her voice rose like the howling of the desert wind.

“The lion’s blood shall soak the lotus.
The mountain will fall from within.
One heir shall be broken—
The other, reborn in flame.”

Arendra had laughed when his tutor shared the omen. He was the second-born, twin to Samrat, his elder brother by minutes but a world apart in spirit. Samrat was the flame—ambitious, charismatic, adored by generals. Arendra was the blade—disciplined, reserved, a master of texts and tactics.

They hadn’t spoken properly in months.