The robed mages exchanged wary glances. Some stepped back in alarm, others forward in fascination. Even the Archmage of Solmaria, a figure who rarely left his sanctum, emerged from behind the altar. His eyes were wide with disbelief.
He whispered to himself.
"This grimoire… it bears no record in our archives. It is older than any I've seen. It is not of Solmaria."
The grimoire slowly descended into Shaurya's outstretched hands, its golden light dimming to a quiet glow as the boy looked upon it—not with fear or confusion—but with a faint, knowing smile.
A silence fell over the chamber, thick and absolute.
No one yet understood the weight of what had just occurred.
But in that moment, something changed. History bent. Destiny stirred.
After the Ceremony – Malhan House
As they returned to the noble estate of House Malhan, the skies had grown darker, though the sun still hung high. Shadows lengthened where they shouldn't. The wind moved strangely, whispering words no one could understand—except, perhaps, the tower itself.
Kanak clutched her grimoire tightly, but her eyes kept drifting to the boy walking silently beside her. He held the ancient book close to his chest, its symbols still faintly glowing.
A storm was brewing—not in the skies, but in the weave of fate itself.
And far, far away—in the forgotten corners of the world—something opened its eyes.
Some watched with hope.
Others with dread.
For a grimoire to choose a child before the age of seven…
...meant something ancient had awakened.
One Year passed,
Shaurya Malhan had begun to shed the soft innocence of early childhood. His once-round cheeks had sharpened slightly, and the spark in his eyes had grown keener—more alert. Though young, he already moved with purpose, a quiet discipline forged under the watchful guidance of Naren, the family's trusted warrior and trainer. Every morning began with stretches in the palace courtyard, followed by drills with wooden swords and lessons on battle stances. His small frame still lacked strength, but his spirit—unwavering and determined—hinted at a future warrior.
But tonight, none of that strength could protect him from what haunted his sleep.
The sky outside the grand windows of the Malhan Palace was bruised with heavy clouds, and the moon barely glowed through the fog. Inside his chamber, the ceilings above were painted with celestial murals—gods and ancient beasts dancing across the skies in gold and silver. Yet Shaurya tossed in his silken sheets, eyes clenched, breath shallow.
In his dream, she returned again.
A winged girl, her white feathers soaked and sticky with blood, stood in a field of broken swords and burning sky. Her face was familiar, though he couldn't place it. She wept—not with noise, but with a deep, silent grief that shook him to his bones.
"Sorry," she whispered, voice trembling.
Then the world shattered.
Shaurya jerked awake.
His chest heaved, lungs gulping air as if he'd been drowning. Cold sweat clung to his skin. His small fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, knuckles white.