Ten years had passed since the sky broke. Ten years since the Age of the Lion-God had dawned in thunder and a spectral roar. For Vira, they were years of relentless training and haunted sleep.
He lived in the skeletal remains of a mountain fortress, under the unforgiving tutelage of Acharya Vashisht and the Vanyaka Brotherhood. He learned the hundred and eight forms of the divine blade, his muscles burning until they became steel. He learned to meditate in the heart of a winter storm, his body turning blue before his inner fire would ignite to keep him alive. He learned the scriptures of war, but not of peace.
His nights were the true trial. He would dream of fire. Not the clean, purifying flame of a temple, but a chaotic, devouring inferno. He would hear screams, a chorus of voices silenced in a single, horrifying moment. He would feel a mother's love and a father's defiance as they were snuffed out like candles. These were not memories, but echoes embedded in his soul, fragments of a past he couldn't name. He would wake with a silent scream caught in his throat, his hands clenched into claws, the scar on his forehead an icy brand against his fevered skin.
Only one thing brought him peace. Sometimes, deep in the throes of a nightmare, a sound would rise from the abyss of his own being. A low, resonant roar that was not his own. It was a sound of absolute authority, of ancient power. The moment he heard it, the fires in his dream would recede, the screams would fade, and a strange, profound calm would settle over him. He would wake then, not in terror, but in a state of quiet, lonely awe. The roar was a part of him, a beast that lived in his heart, and it was the only thing that could tame his ghosts.
This night, the roar in his soul was restless. Vashisht had sent him on a mission beyond the mountain's borders, to investigate a surge of demonic energy near a monastery in the foothills. "Observe only," the Acharya had commanded. "You are not yet ready to be a beacon. To shine a light in the dark is to draw every moth and monster to you."
But as he moved through the twilight forest, silent as a hunting cat, the roar grew louder, more insistent. It was not a sound of peace. It was a warning. It was a command.
At the monastery of Dakshini, the evening discourse had just ended. Mira, now a young woman of seventeen, was collecting the scrolls. Her wit was sharper than ever, her arguments with the other scholars a source of both admiration and frustration for her peers. Her skepticism was a whetstone she used to test every doctrine, every belief.
The attack came with the same shocking suddenness as the omen ten years prior. One moment, the air was filled with the gentle scent of evening jasmine; the next, it was thick with the stench of spiritual rot.
They were not brutes or hulking beasts. They were the Shraddha-eaters, demons who fed on faith. They moved like wraiths of shadow and spite, their forms humanoid but indistinct, their faces shifting masks of mockery.
One of them glided up to an old priest deep in his evening prayer. "Praying to the silence?" the demon hissed, its voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. It placed a hand on the priest's head, and the man's faith, a lifetime of devotion, was siphoned out of him. His expression of serenity turned to one of hollow, abject despair. He slumped over, not dead, but empty. A vessel whose contents had been devoured.
Panic erupted. Monks and scholars scattered. The Shraddha-eaters laughed, a sound that grated on the soul, as they began their feast.
Mira did not run. Her fear was a cold, hard knot in her stomach, but her mind was a whirlwind of cold logic. "The cisterns!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "To the western cloister! Now!"
She shoved a group of terrified younger students toward a hidden passage, her face a mask of fierce determination. She then grabbed a heavy bronze brazier filled with hot coals and hurled it into a tapestry depicting the life of a saint. The ancient cloth went up in flames, creating a wall of fire and smoke that confused and diverted several of the wraith-like demons. It was a desperate, calculated act of sacrilege to save lives.
She was turning to flee when she found her path blocked. The leader of the demons stood before her. It was larger than the others, its shadowy form more defined, its presence a vortex of absolute cynicism.
"The little scholar," it rasped, its shifting face settling on a cruel mockery of Guru Bhaskaran. "The one whose doubt is so very… delicious. You have no faith for me to eat. So I will simply take your hope."
Mira stood her ground, her body trembling but her eyes blazing. She held up a small, pointed scroll-weight, a pathetic weapon. "There is nothing here for you," she said, her voice shaking but clear.
The demon laughed. "Oh, but there is. You hope in logic. You hope in order. You hope that you can think your way out of this." It glided forward, a claw of pure shadow extending toward her. "Let me show you the truth. There is only chaos."
The claw shot forward. Mira closed her eyes, a single, rebellious thought flashing through her mind: At least I will not die believing a lie.
The blow never landed.
There was a sound like the air ripping apart. A golden blur, impossibly fast, slammed into the demon leader, hurling it across the courtyard.
Mira's eyes snapped open. A young man stood where the demon had been. He was tall and leanly muscled, dressed in the simple, travel-stained robes of a hermit. He held no weapon. But it was his eyes that stole her breath. They were the color of burning gold, filled with a light that was ancient and furious. He was the lion from her vision, cloaked in human flesh.
The remaining Shraddha-eaters hissed, their predatory confidence turning to primal fear. They saw him not as a man, but as a predator of their own kind, an avatar of the very divine energy they existed to mock.
He moved. It was not a fight; it was a culling. His hands, wreathed in a faint golden light, became blurs. He did not strike their bodies; he struck the core of their being. With each touch, a demon would shriek, its shadowy form unraveling like smoke in a gale, its essence annihilated. The whole encounter lasted less than ten heartbeats.
Silence fell once more, heavy and absolute. The young man stood in the center of the courtyard, breathing heavily, the golden light in his eyes slowly receding. He turned to look at her, and Mira saw not a triumphant savior, but someone deeply haunted.
Her fear, momentarily eclipsed by shock, returned as anger. It was a defense mechanism she knew well. "What are you?" she demanded, her voice sharp, accusing.
He seemed taken aback by her hostility. His gaze was direct, yet uncomfortable, as if he were unused to holding a conversation. "A protector," he said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that vibrated in her bones.
"A protector?" she shot back, taking a half-step forward, fueled by adrenaline and a decade of skepticism. "You fight like a monster. That light… that rage… you're no different from them. Just another form of destruction."
The word "monster" struck him like a physical blow. He flinched, his expression tightening with a pain that looked far older than his years. He took a step back, as if to put distance between them, to protect her from himself.
"I am what I must be," he said, the words heavy with a burden she could not comprehend.
He turned to leave, his duty done, his master's order to "observe only" shattered beyond repair. He needed to disappear back into the wilderness before he caused any more damage, drew any more attention.
"Wait."
The word was quiet, but it stopped him cold. He turned back.
Mira stood there, her anger deflating, replaced by a cold, practical fear. The brazier she had lit was still burning, casting flickering, dancing shadows all around them. The monastery was in ruins. Her friends were hurt. The night was far from over.
"Don't go," she said, her voice losing its edge, becoming smaller. "They'll be back. Or worse will come."
She took a hesitant step toward him, and in an act of pure, desperate impulse, her hand shot out and grabbed his arm.
The moment her skin touched his, the world shifted for Vira. The ever-present, low-grade roar of the beast in his heart, the echo of his nightmares, the crushing weight of his destiny—it all went silent. For the first time in his memory, there was a profound and perfect quiet in his soul. There was only the feeling of her small, warm hand on his arm, an anchor in a sea of divine chaos.
He stared at her, his golden eyes wide with a raw, unguarded astonishment. And in them, for the first time, Mira did not see a monster or a god. She saw a lonely, startled boy.