The morning sun rose behind the eastern hills, casting golden light over the valley. The Peepal tree under which Arav had awakened now stood silent, ancient, and wise. Dew sparkled like blessings from the heavens, and the air smelled of moist earth and wild jasmine. But Arav's mind was a whirlwind.
The night's events—his vision, the ring, the voice—blurred into a vivid, terrifying dream. Yet the weight of the ring on his finger told him it had been real.
"You are not what they made you believe," the spirit had whispered. "You are born of mantra... not of misery."
He traced the ring's curves with his thumb. It pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
Suddenly, the wind shifted. It carried with it a faint echo.
"Chant... to awaken..."
Arav stiffened. The voice was back. It was fainter this time, like a whisper traveling across lifetimes.
"Where are you?" Arav said aloud.
No answer.
But the wind changed again—and now, it felt alive. It danced around him in spirals, playing with his tunic, ruffling his unkempt black hair. Then came the warmth. The ring grew hot.
Before him, the air shimmered.
Like a veil being drawn back, a form began to take shape in the wind.
A woman.
Draped in translucent silks, her presence was ethereal. Her hair flowed as though underwater. Her eyes were closed, and on her forehead shimmered a lotus-shaped mark. The spirit of the ring had returned.
"Your journey begins today," she said, her voice like the chime of temple bells. "But first, you must survive it."
And with that, she vanished into mist—leaving behind a strange wooden staff wrapped in golden thread, lying at Arav's feet.
It was his first gift from the ancient path. And it was only the beginning.