The morning sun barely crept over Bhaktapur's rooftops when the screams began.
Arya stood frozen in the middle of the bustling market, Tara at his side and Baba Kedar leaning lazily on his staff, sipping from a flask that smelled like cheap rice wine. It should have been an ordinary morning—vendors hawking spices and silks, prayer bells chiming from nearby temples, the scent of roasted corn and incense filling the air.
But ordinary mornings didn't come with whispers that slithered through the crowd like snakes.
"They've found us," Tara said softly, her sightless white eyes flicking toward the shadows at the far end of the square.
Arya's gut twisted. "Found us? Who?"
Before she could answer, black-robed figures emerged from the crowd like living nightmares. Their faces were obscured by bone-white masks carved into demonic snarls. Clawed hands extended from beneath their sleeves, and faint crimson light pulsed beneath their skin as if fire burned in their veins.
A chilling chant rose from their throats, low and guttural, echoing like a death knell.
Baba Kedar sighed and put away his flask. "Rakshasa cultists," he muttered. "Fanatics who'd rather kiss demon feet than live as men."
The masked leader raised his clawed hands high, the air warping with unnatural heat. "Find the shard-bearer," his voice boomed, deep and jagged like splintered metal. "Claim Rudra's heir for our King!"
Before Arya could blink, the square erupted into chaos. Stalls overturned, terrified villagers fled in every direction, and the smell of burning cloth and scorched stone filled the air as dark magic ignited.
One of the cultists lunged at Arya with inhuman speed, claws slicing through the space where his neck had been a second before. Arya stumbled back, breath sharp and panicked.
Tara moved like flowing water, spinning her staff in a dazzling arc that cracked against the cultist's jaw, sending him sprawling. Golden light rippled briefly along the ground where she stood, forming protective seals that burned when cultists drew near.
"Stay close to me," she commanded.
But Arya barely heard her. Something inside him had begun to stir—wild and violent. Sparks danced across his fingertips, leaping up his arms, and the glowing trident mark seared brighter than ever.
Kedar swung his staff with surprising speed for someone his age, smashing through a masked cultist's ribs with bone-cracking force. "Kid!" he shouted over the chaos. "Control it or you'll fry yourself!"
Arya's heart pounded like a war drum. Another cultist barreled toward him, red eyes glowing beneath the mask. Arya raised his hand instinctively.
A bolt of blue-white lightning exploded from his palm with a deafening crack. The cultist screamed as the electricity slammed him into a stone pillar, leaving charred cracks spiderwebbing across its surface.
Arya stared at his smoking hand, chest heaving. "I… I didn't mean—"
The leader roared, summoning a torrent of demonic fire that twisted like a living serpent, hurtling toward Arya. Tara stepped in front of him, slamming her staff down, a dome of golden light flaring into existence just as the flames struck. Heat washed over them like an inferno, the barrier trembling but holding.
Arya's ears rang. Fear turned to desperation. Without thinking, he screamed and thrust both hands forward.
Lightning erupted from him in every direction, raw and untamed. It tore through the market like a thunderstorm unchained, splitting stalls, hurling cultists through the air, and striking the leader with a blinding flash that silenced his guttural chant mid-word.
When the storm faded, silence hung heavy over the ruined market. Smoldering debris lay scattered. Frightened townsfolk peered from alleyways. The cult leader lay motionless, his mask shattered, smoke curling from his body.
Arya stumbled backward, horrified at what he'd done. The ground around him was scorched black, wooden beams still crackling with electricity.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head. "I… I couldn't stop it…"
Tara knelt beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Power like this isn't controlled overnight. It can destroy you… or save you. You must learn to master it."
Baba Kedar planted his staff in the ground, surveying the wreckage with a long, heavy sigh. "First time unleashing Rudra's storm and you nearly leveled half the city," he said, shaking his head. "Boy, you're a disaster waiting to happen."
Arya looked up at him, voice breaking. "Then why me? Why not someone else?"
Kedar's golden eyes softened just slightly. "Because storms don't ask permission," he said quietly. "They just… happen."
From the edge of the square, a cloaked figure watched unseen, a single red eye glowing in the shadows. It whispered in a voice colder than death.
"Too weak. Too wild. He won't last."
And then it was gone, leaving only the smell of ash and the faint rumble of thunder far above the city.