The storm outside had long faded, but inside Arya, it raged louder than ever. His body trembled as he stumbled through Bhaktapur's narrow alleys, clutching his hoodie tightly to hide the glowing trident mark on his palm. Every breath came out in sharp bursts, every step carrying a strange static that made hairs stand on end.
He slipped into a deserted rooftop overlooking the bustling marketplace below. Lanterns flickered in the night breeze, temple bells chimed softly, and the city moved as if nothing had changed. But for Arya, everything had.
"What the hell is happening to me?" he muttered, gripping his burning hand. Sparks jumped between his fingers, a faint scent of ozone hanging in the air.
He rubbed at the mark until it stung, but the faint glow wouldn't fade. Desperation welled in his chest. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a monk or warrior. He was just a thief trying to survive in a city that barely noticed he existed.
And yet… the voice from the relic still echoed inside his mind, as if it had been carved into his very soul.
"Bearer of the storm… awaken."
Arya clutched his head. "No. No, no… this isn't real."
But then came the whisper. Soft, distant, yet it filled his mind with clarity sharper than the mountain air.
"Rudra's heir… awaken your path…"
Arya spun around on the rooftop, scanning the dark alleys and shadowed doorways. "Who's there?!"
Nothing. Only the quiet rustle of prayer flags flapping above, strings creaking softly in the wind.
Arya staggered back, gripping his chest, breath shaky. His eyes darted up at the storm clouds gathering unnaturally over Pashupatinath Temple, faint streaks of lightning flickering within.
"I need to get out of here," he whispered, and climbed down into the maze of alleys.
Far from the city, the mountains howled with icy winds. Snow lashed at the high monastery perched on a jagged cliff in Mustang. Inside its dim halls, lit only by oil lamps, monks chanted low prayers until the ground itself seemed to tremble.
Tara knelt in meditation, the youngest monk to ever receive divine sight. Though blind, her glowing white eyes pierced through worlds unseen by mortals. The moment Arya's shard awakened, Tara gasped and clutched her prayer beads, every fiber of her being trembling.
Visions ripped through her mind
A boy surrounded by lightning, standing against armies of shadow.
A divine trident shattering into seven shards across the Himalayan peaks.
Narak's black gates cracking open, demons pouring like a flood.
When she opened her eyes, tears glistened on her cheeks.
"The prophecy…" she whispered. "It's begun."
An elder monk approached quietly, robes brushing against stone. "You saw him?"
Tara nodded slowly, voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "The heir of Rudra has awakened. Narak's prison trembles."
The master's wrinkled hands trembled as he placed prayer beads into hers. They glowed faintly with a golden light. "Then you must go, Tara. The storm will need a guide… or it will destroy all that remains."
Tara bowed deeply, rising to her feet. Without another word, she stepped out into the blizzard, the wind catching her braid as she began the long journey south toward Bhaktapur.
Deep below the mortal realm, in the molten caverns of Narak, a throne of bone and blackened stone loomed above an infernal court. From its shadowed seat, the Rakshasa King stirred. Eight arms unfolded, each clad in obsidian armor, each gripping a weapon that glimmered with the blood of fallen gods.
The cavern shook as molten rivers hissed and Rakshasa demons dropped to their knees, heads bowed low.
A scout crawled forward, trembling. "My lord… the shard-bearer has awakened."
Golden molten eyes opened, casting a fiery glow over the twisted cavern walls. The Rakshasa King leaned forward slowly, his voice like grinding stone and roaring fire.
"After all these centuries… Rudra's heir breathes again."
The demons dared not lift their heads as the King rose, towering like a mountain of shadow and flame. His eight arms stretched wide, cracking the jagged throne behind him.
"Bring me the boy," the King commanded, voice echoing like thunder through Narak's depths. "Alive if possible… shattered if not."
The cavern erupted in a chorus of demonic howls as hunters crawled out of the darkness, their eyes glowing red like burning coals.
"And if Rudra himself dares return…" The King's grin split his monstrous face, fangs glinting. "…I will finish what we began."
Back in Bhaktapur, Arya crouched on the rooftop of an abandoned pagoda, staring at his trembling hands.
"This… this isn't real," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "I'm nobody. I'm not… whatever that was."
But deep down, he felt it. Something ancient pulsed within his veins, like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
Arya squeezed his fists shut. "I just need to sleep this off. Tomorrow, I'm gone… out of this city, out of this mess."
But as he turned to leave, the trident mark on his palm flared bright, sending a jolt up his arm. Arya cried out, clutching his hand. In that moment, for just a heartbeat, he saw something impossible—a flash of a massive golden trident, spinning in the sky above snowy peaks, lightning cracking across an endless battlefield.
The vision faded as quickly as it came. Arya collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Somewhere in the darkness below, hidden in the shadow of an alley, a cloaked figure with a glowing red eye watched silently. It whispered in a language older than mortals before disappearing into the mist.
High above the city, the storm clouds gathered again, and for the first time in centuries, Bhaktapur felt the breath of forgotten gods.