The fire that devoured the Malhan estate raged long into the night, casting a blood-red glow across the distant hills like the world itself was mourning. The once-great halls that had housed tomes of lost knowledge, enchanted artifacts, and ancient lineage were now reduced to smoldering ruins. The marble columns had crumbled, the stained-glass windows shattered, and the symbol of the house—now melted, warped, and lost to the ash.
To the world beyond the flames, it was as if House Malhan had simply ceased to be.
The Holy Empire of Valgris wasted no time crafting a narrative. Official scrolls declared that the noble house had fallen in an internal rebellion—consumed by their own pride, magic, and secrets. What remained of the palace—fragments of bodies, a scorched library, and a collapsed wing—were more than enough to support the lie. There was no effort to investigate further. No search for survivors.
The Royal Family of Solmaria held a brief moment of silence. Then they, too, moved on. In courts of gold and marble, whispers died before they could take root. Silence, after all, kept kingdoms intact.
A Hidden Village
Far from the scorched legacy and royal apathy, hidden in the arms of nature, lay the village of Devkahar. Cradled between ancient hills veiled in mist and pine forests that whispered of forgotten times, Devkahar was a world untouched by power or politics.
There were no palaces here. No nobles. Only honest homes with slanted roofs and warm hearths that crackled with woodsmoke and laughter.
Here lived Bhairav Nanda, village head, a swordman, and once—long ago—a warrior and friend of Ashvik Malhan. Time had gentled his once-sharp face, but the fire in his eyes had not dimmed. When Ashvik arrived with the broken family, Bhairav opened his doors without question and his heart without condition.
The cottage he offered them was small by noble standards, but to those who had fled fire and death, it felt like sacred ground. Nestled on the edge of the village, where the forest met the fields, it had five cozy rooms, a wooden fence that creaked in the wind, and a garden where Isha soon planted herbs beside wildflowers.
The wind here was different—softer, untainted. The birds sang louder than rumors. And the earth no longer trembled beneath schemes of the highborn.
The Healing Days
Shaurya, now five, found new rhythms to his life. The marble halls, and the echo of servants were gone. Now, he woke to the sound of roosters, washed his face in the cold water of the well, and helped Bhairav's grandson with farm chores. He carried buckets, gathered eggs, stacked firewood, and learned the names of animals, trees, and stars.
But the past never fully left him.
At night, by the dim oil lamp, he read salvaged books—texts Naren had managed to save from the burning estate. Spellcraft, history, philosophy, poetry. The scent of ash still clung to their pages.
His father, Ashvik, though still healing from his wounds, began to shape Shaurya's mind and body. Each evening, he taught him not just fighting forms, but also balance—both inner and outer. He taught him meditation, how to control breath, how to stand firm against fear.
"Strength is not just to fight," Ashvik would say. "It's to endure. To rise again. To protect when no one else will."
Isha, meanwhile, slowly rebuilt her world in gentler ways. She began tending to the villagers—using herbs and healing techniques to treat wounds, colds, and troubled pregnancies. Her hands, once meant for palace embroidery, now mended broken skin and broken trust. Slowly, her eyes began to sparkle again—if only in brief moments.
And always, by Shaurya's side, was Kanak.
Eight years old now, she had seen more than most adults. She remembered the smoke, the screams, and the hand that pulled her through fire. She watched over Shaurya not out of duty, but as younger brother. Like an older sister forged by tragedy, she stood at the edges of his silence, understanding it even when he couldn't speak it.
The Spark Beneath the Ashes
The empire believed House Malhan to be gone. A name lost in fire, buried beneath the ruins of a forgotten rebellion. The nobles spoke of them in past tense—if at all. The capital moved on.
But in the hidden village of Devkahar, beneath starry skies and quiet hills, the true heir walked barefoot through the fields, his fingers calloused by work, his mind sharpened by grief and fire.
He did not wear a crown. He did not raise a sword. But something within him was growing. Not revenge. Not rage.
Resolve.
The kind that would shake kingdoms one day.