The forest was far older than the people who now hid within it.
Its trees, tall and ancient, stood draped in heavy snow. The wind whispered through frozen branches, carrying the faint scent of ice and silence. Evening light dimmed behind thick clouds, turning the world into a vast sheet of silver and shadow.
Two boys—scarcely eleven—ran between the trees, their laughter echoing against the walls of the ancient woods. They wore crude clothes stitched from animal skins, their bare feet hardened from life in the snow.
"Today we are not going home without a catch," one of them whispered proudly.
The two set a simple trap in the snow and hid behind a large rock, breath fogging in the cold.
Moments passed.
Stillness.
Silence.
Then a small shape wandered into the clearing—a wild boar piglet.
It sniffed at the snow, curious and unaware.
SNAP.
The trap closed around it.
The piglet squealed, loud and shrill.
The boys nearly jumped in triumph.
But their excitement froze as a deep, monstrous roar trembled through the forest.
The sound was ancient.
Powerful.
Wrong.
Trees began to shake.
Branches cracked.
Trunks snapped in half as something massive forced its way toward them.
The boys stared, pupils shrinking in terror.
A giant boar burst through the trees—unlike anything alive today.
Its body was monstrous, scarred, its hide thick as iron.
Four tusks jutted out like curved blades.
Four red eyes burned with primal rage.
One boy was so terrified he involuntarily wet himself.
Neither could move.
Neither could scream.
The monster lowered its head and charged.
And then—
A shadow dropped from the trees above.
A young man landed with the force of thunder—tall, muscular, wrapped in the fur of a three-headed bear, gripping a massive iron hammer in his hands.
He swung with all his might.
The hammer smashed into the boar's skull.
The beast staggered, snow exploding beneath its weight.
"Hide!" the young man commanded.
The boys scrambled behind a rock as the man charged at the monster again.
The forest shook with every impact—roars, grunts, heavy strikes.
Snow burst upward as hammer met flesh.
At last, the giant boar collapsed—alive but unconscious.
A terrified piglet trembled nearby.
The young man himself bled from multiple wounds.
The boys ran to him, tears falling as they cried his name for the first time—
"Kasha!
Kasha!"
The warrior knelt, pulling them close.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I'm here."
He rose carefully, guiding them out of the forest.
The world they walked through was not the world their ancestors once knew.
This is the year 9345.
The earth is no longer fertile.
Grain grows rarely and costs more than gold.
People survive mostly on meat, because animals still exist where crops do not.
Electricity vanished centuries ago.
Light comes from fire and oil lamps fueled by melted animal fat.
Clothing is made from fur and hide—no threads, no machines, no fabric.
Weapons are carved from iron, hammered by hand in crude forges.
Gunpowder is a myth now—no one remembers how to create it.
No bullets.
No explosions.
Only blades, hammers, and courage.
Humanity has fallen back into the arms of survival.
The forest thinned, and soon the towering wooden walls of the settlement rose before them—massive, thick, reinforced with ice and logs. Torches flickered along the top.
Two guards spotted the approaching trio.
"It's been so long since we saw you!" one shouted. "You've grown quite a beard!"
Kasha smiled faintly.
"I was out on a mission."
The guard noticed the blood on his shirt.
"That wound… what happened?"
"This?" Kasha shrugged. "Just a scratch."
"Where is the Chief?" he asked.
"At home," the guard replied. "He was asking about you."
The gates creaked open.
Warm light spilled out from within.
Kasha led the boys inside.
Inside the settlement, life breathed in flickers of firelight.
Children ran between huts.
Women stitched fur clothing.
Men hammered iron tools.
Smoke curled from chimneys like ghosts rising to the sky.
Kasha walked to the Chief's house.
The moment the door opened, the smaller boy ran to the Chief and wrapped his arms around him, sobbing.
"What happened, child?" the Chief asked softly.
The boy couldn't speak.
The Chief looked to the second.
But before he spoke, Kasha stepped forward and recounted the entire event.
The Chief's anger sparked but died quickly when he saw the fear on the boys' faces.
"You must never do this again," he said sternly. "If you repeat it, there will be punishment. Now go home."
The boys nodded and left.
The Chief embraced Kasha tightly.
"It's been too long," he said. "You've grown stronger… wiser."
He saw the wound.
"This is no small injury."
"It'll heal," Kasha replied.
But the Chief leaned closer, voice grave.
"You told me we had three, maybe four years… until they reached us."
Kasha's eyes darkened.
"That has changed."
He paused, then said the words that froze the Chief's breathing.
"They'll be here… in four months."
The Chief felt the world tilt.
"Four months?
I was told we had years."
"We don't," Kasha said. "We must prepare to leave."
Silence.
Long. Heavy.
Finally the Chief spoke.
"Very well. Tomorrow begins the Diwali festival—four days of celebration.
On the fifth day… we leave this home forever."
Kasha nodded.
"And go to Surbhi," the Chief added. "She will treat your wounds."
Kasha allowed himself a small smile.
"Yes, Chief."
The moment he stepped outside, villagers rushed around him.
"Kasha!"
"You're back!"
"We missed you!"
He greeted them warmly, but then his eyes drifted past the crowd…
And found her.
Standing quietly, her long black hair adorned with flowers, her dark eyes glowing even in dim firelight.
Surbhi.
Everything else disappeared.
Kasha walked to her and embraced her tightly.
"I missed you," he whispered.
Tears filled her eyes.
"Don't go missing like that again…"
"I'm here now," he murmured. "With you."
But then she saw the blood on his clothes.
Her expression changed instantly.
"What happened to you?"
Kasha laughed softly.
"It's nothing."
"No," she said firmly. "Come with me."
She led him to their small home—warm, lit with animal-fat lamps.
She washed his wound, stitched it with trembling hands, and applied medicine carefully.
When she finished, she said, "Go bathe."
Instead, he hugged her gently.
"I just want to be near you."
She smiled and pushed him playfully.
"Go."
He returned clean-shaven, fresh, more handsome than before.
He slipped behind her, hugged her, and kissed her neck.
She turned and kissed him back—
their warmth guiding them from the kitchen to the hall…
and finally to the bedroom.
Later, as they sat at the dining table eating goat meat, Surbhi asked softly:
"How bad is it?"
"It's fine," Kasha lied.
"Don't lie to me."
He exhaled.
"They'll reach here in four months."
Surbhi froze.
"Four… months?"
"Yes.
After Diwali, we leave."
They finished dinner quietly and went to bed.
That night, the Chief stood on his balcony, staring up at the stars.
Worry lined his face.
His wife, Tulsi, stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "Everything will be alright. Everyone trusts you."
"That's what scares me," he admitted.
"Two thousand people rely on me.
I don't know how we'll move them… or where we'll go."
Tulsi squeezed his arm.
"We will find a way. Tomorrow… preparations begin."
The Chief closed his eyes and finally went inside to sleep.
Outside, the cold wind continued to whisper through the night—
carrying with it the quiet dread of the four months ahead.