The Prithvi Mandala stretched wide under the golden hues of dusk, its grand markets bustling with traders and wanderers alike. As one of the three great Mandalas under the rule of the Ashtaraj Triad, it was a land governed by warlords, mystics, and outcasts. The Ashtaraj Triad, constantly in turmoil, fought among themselves for dominance. The current ruler, Bhavottar, had claimed his place through sheer might, standing as one of the most formidable beings in Kalagraha. His reign over Prithvi, Bhuva, and Jangala Mandalas was one of both fear and grudging respect.
Kalagraha, the vast and ancient land, was divided into three great Triads: Jyotirath, Tamovansh, and Ashtaraj. Each Triad governed multiple Mandalas, regions with their own rulers, cultures, and conflicts. The Ashtaraj Triad, to which Prithvi Mandala belonged, was known for its chaotic yet formidable governance, a realm where warriors, mystics, and exiles struggled for dominance. Unlike the structured rule of the Jyotirath or the enigmatic secrecy of Tamovansh, Ashtaraj was ever-changing, its rulers often dethroned by sheer force.
Dust swirled through the air as Arya Vardhan, weary and ragged, stepped into the sacred halls of an ancient temple. His limbs ached, his stomach clenched in hunger, and his mind festered with resentment. Life had not been kind to him.
Tall but thin from days without proper food, Arya's sharp eyes scanned the temple's interior. Though lean, he was not weak—his body carried the quiet strength of someone hardened by survival. His skin was lightly tanned from the sun, his dark hair unkempt, and his features sharp and defined. He slumped against a pillar, cursing under his breath. The world had taken everything from him. Why should he be grateful for anything? The scent of burning incense filled the chamber, a stark contrast to his turmoil.
His eyes wandered, settling on an ancient mural painted onto the temple wall. It depicted a battle—two opposing forces locked in combat. One side, draped in golden light, seemed righteous, while the other, shrouded in shadow, appeared sinister. Yet, as Arya studied it, doubt crept into his mind. Which side was good? Which was evil? The figures were fierce, their expressions unreadable. Was righteousness merely a matter of perspective?
"Strange," a calm voice broke through his thoughts. "I have met someone like you before… much earlier."
Arya turned, startled. An old man stood before him, dressed in simple robes, his eyes holding an unsettling depth.
"What?" Arya asked, his voice sharper than intended.
The old man merely smiled. "Tell me, young one, what do you seek?"
The question caught Arya off guard. He frowned, glancing at the offering plate of food the man extended toward him. His hunger overpowered his pride, and he took it without answering.
As he ate, the man continued, "You will find your answers. Just follow your heart."
Arya scowled but said nothing. He had no patience for cryptic wisdom. Without another word, he left the temple, stepping back into the chaos of Prithvi Mandala's markets.
The name of the old man lingered in his mind—Satyanipun.
The scent of spices, the clamor of merchants, and the laughter of children filled the streets. Arya moved through the crowd, his belly full but his mind unsettled. He wasn't sure what it was about Satyanipun, but his words lingered.
Then, a commotion caught his attention.
A merchant was yelling, struggling to chase down two boys who darted through the crowd like shadows.
"Thieves! Someone catch them!"
Arya's instincts kicked in. He swiftly stepped in the merchant's path, pretending to stumble, buying the boys just enough time to disappear into an alley.
The merchant cursed and moved on. Arya, curious, followed the alleyway. There, the two boys were panting, clutching their stolen goods. They looked up, eyes wary. They were identical—same height, same build, indistinguishable in every way.
Arya folded his arms. "You two are terrible at this."
One of them—grinning mischievously—tilted his head. "And who are you, exactly?"
Arya tossed them some of his leftover temple food. "Someone who just saved you."
The other, with sharp, calculating eyes, took the food hesitantly. "Why?"
Arya shrugged. "Eat before I change my mind."
The boys devoured the food like starving animals. Arya turned to leave, but he could feel their gazes following him.
"We don't owe you anything," one of them called after him.
"Good," Arya replied. "Now go away."
Yet, the boys trailed behind him, persistent. Days passed, and they continued shadowing him. No matter how much he ignored them, they remained—stealing food, slipping mudras into his hands when they found extras. It was irritating, yet strangely familiar.
At one point, Arya deliberately tried to lose them, taking winding paths through the market, only to find them waiting ahead, grinning. Their cleverness was undeniable, their skills far beyond mere pickpocketing. They planned their thefts meticulously, ensuring that no one ever knew there were two of them. Each carried a small knife, a necessity for their trade.
Arya had observed their method. They had perfected a trick—one would act as a distraction while the other struck, making it seem like a single, incredibly fast thief was responsible. No one suspected the presence of twins.
One evening, Arya found himself watching them from a distance as they worked their craft. He had to admit—they were good. If they had been born into nobility or trained under a master, they could have been elite spies or warriors. But instead, they were street thieves, surviving by wit and instinct.
Finally, Arya sighed. "Fine. Stay if you want."
The twins grinned, identical in every way.
"I'm Raghav," said the first.
"And I'm Rudra," said the other.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Arya realized that, for the first time in a long while, he wasn't completely alone.