By the time Arav returned to the village, dawn had broken fully. The sky had cleared, but tension hung over the muddy lanes like a storm yet to break.
Kora village was small—no more than a few dozen huts surrounded by millet fields and thorned fences. In his childhood, Arav had run down these paths barefoot, laughing. Now, the people barely met his eyes. Whispers followed him like shadows.
"There goes the mad boy."
"Wasn't he sleeping under that cursed tree again?"
"Did you see the glow on his hand?"
They had seen it. The faint gleam of the ring. He had tried to hide it beneath a strip of cloth, but the villagers were suspicious by nature. Ever since his father—once the village protector—had died, they had treated Arav and his mother as burdens. When she vanished a year ago, they whispered worse.
"Maybe she ran away. Maybe she left him to fate."
He clenched his fists.
Let them speak.
Let them mock.
Something had awakened inside him, something deeper than hurt and anger.
He had purpose now.
A commotion near the village square broke his thoughts. A tall figure in black stood in front of the elder's hut, holding up a scroll. His face was hidden behind a veil of smoke-gray cloth, but the insignia on his sash—the Rakta Vahini, blood messengers of the central empire—was unmistakable.
A proclamation.
"By order of the Council of Fire and Wind," the man declared, "a call is issued across all regions: the Trials of the Seven Schools are to begin. All of age may present themselves at the city of Bhairavgarh within seven days."
A hush fell.
Seven Schools. The ancient orders of mantra cultivation.
Most villagers had only heard tales: elite fighters who could chant mountains into dust, heal wounds with a whisper, or summon storms with a breath.
The messenger's eyes settled on Arav.
"You. Peasant boy. You carry aura. You should present yourself."
Arav blinked. "Me?"
"Yes," the man said. "Or die unfulfilled. The ring chose you, didn't it?"
And just like that, the village no longer mattered.
Only the road ahead did.