The afternoon light turned molten as they descended toward the plains. Wind hissed through the copper pillars, carrying whispers that sounded almost like chanting. Every few steps, Arjun’s mark flickered, reacting to something invisible. The air here had a pulse — the rhythm of forgotten faith.
The terrain ahead sloped into what had once been a riverbed. Now it was a hollow of luminous stones and strange metallic roots. The sunken shrine lay half-buried in its center, a massive dome split open like an egg — its walls carved with verses and circuit-threads glowing faint blue beneath layers of dust. Around it, fragments of idols and machinery mingled: arms of stone gods intertwined with wires, faces of deities overgrown with moss.
Mira slowed, her gaze wary. “This place was sealed before the Cataclysm. The last guardian tried to bury it with himself.”
Arjun looked around. “Because of the corruption?”
She shook her head. “Because of what it revealed.”
They stepped over a cracked arch, descending into the hollow. The sound of the wind grew deeper — like voices beneath the surface. For the first time since the shrine of Aatma Naad, Arjun felt that presence again, the one that was neither sight nor sound but awareness — like the gaze of something older than humanity itself.
Inside the dome, shafts of light fell through broken panels, illuminating the altar. Upon it rested a vast circle of bronze, inscribed with ancient yantras that pulsed faintly. From its center sprouted what looked like the remnants of a giant turbine — yet it hummed with spiritual resonance, as though part of the wind itself had been bound into its frame.
Mira stood still. “This is the Shrine of Vayu. The wind god’s last gate.”
Arjun could feel the hum in his bones. “And it’s still awake.”
“The gods don’t sleep,” she said. “They wait.”
He stepped closer, his reflection broken across the metallic surface of the altar. His palm burned — faint, rhythmic. The whisper came again, low and deep, blending with the moan of the wind:
“Will you move with the wind, or try to command it?”
He froze. The voice was neither kind nor cruel. It was testing him.The dome trembled as dust rained from its ceiling. Mira instinctively reached for his arm.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Arjun didn’t answer. The mark on his palm blazed, throwing golden light across the walls. Sanskrit code ignited around them — letters swirling like small storms. The air thickened. A gale rose, circling the altar, until the entire shrine howled like a living thing.
Within the wind, a form began to appear — tall, indistinct, half-transparent. Its outline shimmered like smoke lit by lightning, and its eyes glowed a fierce silver-blue.
“Who calls upon the Keeper of Breath?” the voice demanded.
Mira dropped to one knee, bowing instinctively. “Divine Vayu,” she whispered. “Forgive our intrusion.”
But Arjun couldn’t bow. The presence pressed on him, heavy and infinite. He forced his voice through it. “I am Arjun Varad. The gods called me. I seek the Divyaastra that guards against darkness.”
Vayu’s eyes turned toward him, impersonal and vast.
“Many seek weapons. Few seek purpose. Which are you?”
Arjun hesitated. Wind whipped around him, tearing at his cloak.“I… don’t know yet. But I’ll learn. Even if I fail.”
The spirit’s expression shifted — if such beings had expression at all. The storm slowed.
“Then you will face the Trial of Vayu,” the god said. “To master the wind, you must learn to yield. To protect life, you must give up control. Will you obey when the world asks you to bend, Arjun Varad?”
The gale surged again, enveloping him. The air thinned. Mira’s cry vanished in the roar.Arjun could no longer see her — only the blinding whirlwind.Inside it, shapes formed — memories not his own.
He saw cities torn by storms, men standing proud until their pride turned to ruin. He saw a figure — Raghav — facing down raiders, wind tearing his cloak as he shielded villagers behind him. For a heartbeat, Arjun saw through Raghav’s eyes — the same fire, the same resolve — and then came the pain, the betrayal, the first taste of injustice that turned him toward darkness.
“The protector and the destroyer are brothers in the wind,” Vayu’s voice boomed. “Both seek control. But only one learns surrender.”
The vision shattered.Arjun collapsed to his knees, gasping. The storm dissipated as suddenly as it had risen.When the dust settled, Mira was beside him again, shaking his shoulders. “Arjun! Say something!”
He lifted his head slowly. His mark had changed — the lotus-flame symbol now enclosed by a circle of flowing lines, like wind captured in motion. The trial’s seal.
Vayu’s voice, softer now, lingered in the air:
“The first Divyaastra will find you when you stop seeking to wield it, and start learning to listen.”
Then the presence was gone. The dome fell silent, only the faint hum of the wind remaining.
Mira looked at him — awe and fear mingling. “You survived the call. Few ever do.”
Arjun looked at the glowing mark on his palm. “I saw him,” he whispered.
“Who?”
He hesitated. “The protector you spoke of. Raghav.”
Mira went still.The look in her eyes was a storm of emotions — grief, longing, dread. She turned away before he could see too much.
“Then the gods are not finished with either of you,” she said quietly. “And neither is the wind.”
As they climbed out of the sunken shrine, the evening sky bled crimson. The air was cooler now, cleaner. The pillars hummed softly, acknowledging that a trial had been passed.
But somewhere far beyond, beyond mountains and cities swallowed by dust, Raghav’s blade — Dhvaja-Khanda — twitched where it lay upon his knees. The wind brushed across its edge, whispering Arjun’s name.
Raghav opened his eyes. They gleamed like embers under ash.
“So,” he murmured. “The gods found a new fool to play hero.”
He smiled — a weary, broken curve. The wind carried his laughter away like a dying flame.