Seven years passed like drifting smoke.
Aash Singh was no longer a boy chasing goats or stumbling over shrine steps. At seventeen, he had grown into someone the village respected — even if they didn't quite understand him.
He still lived with Maahi, helped repair homes, and prayed in silence every dusk. But there was a stillness in him. A weight in his words. And eyes that always seemed to be looking just past you.
Strange things happened around Aash. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.
Animals listened when he spoke. Crops in his patch grew a little greener. And sometimes, during storms, he would fall silent and stare at the sky — as if hearing a language no one else could.
The mark on his back had not returned since that one forgotten night. Or at least... he hadn't told anyone.
One morning, as mist curled along the village fields, a child went missing.
The boy — "Tanu" had followed a dog into the woods beyond the old shrine and didn't return. His mother wailed through the village square, her voice cutting the calm like a blade.
Aash volunteered to join the search.
The forest beyond Mrigdhar was not forbidden, but it was feared.
There were stories of shadows without shapes. Whispers with no mouths. And above all, there was the myth of the Blood Eye — a cursed watcher that saw every soul who dared stray too far.
Most thought it was just bedtime nonsense. But not Aash.
As he walked deeper into the trees, he felt something in his chest pulse — like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The others called out Tanu's name again and again. But Aash stayed quiet.
Something was pulling him — not with sound, but with pressure. Like invisible hands guiding his steps. His skin prickled. His back felt… warm. Then, near a crumbling stone covered in vines, he found the boy. Tanu was sitting on the ground, completely unharmed. Smiling.
"Aash bhai," the child said softly. "You came. I knew you would."
Aash knelt beside him. "What happened? Were you hurt?"
Tanu shook his head. "No. He said I'd be fine. He told me to wait."
Aash felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Who?"
"The boy with the fire on his back," Tanu said. "He was glowing."
Aash froze.
That night, Aash stood shirtless before the cracked bronze mirror in his hut. He turned, slowly, examining his back. And there it was.
Faint black lines, curling like ink just beneath the skin — not yet complete, but unmistakable.
A Trishul. The base had returned. Quiet. Waiting. As he stared, something strange happened.
His reflection... blinked.
Not with two eyes.
With three.
The one in the center of his forehead — closed, yet somehow watching.
He stumbled back.
Then came the voice.
"You are not ready. But the world has no time left."
Nearly a week had passed since that night The sky hadn't yet turned blue.
Aash lay still on his straw mat, eyes open. The cracked mirror across the room reflected only shadows, but he could feel its presence like a second heartbeat. He sat up, pulled his tunic down to reveal his back, and checked.
Nothing. Just skin.
No mark. No ink. No fire.
He exhaled, stood, and walked to the mirror. Draping a cloth over it, he paused.
"If I saw it… does that mean it saw me too?"
The village was stirring. Morning fires crackled, and the scent of wet clay drifted from nearby huts. Aash carried water from the well, helped a child untangle a fishing net, and even smiled at a man who gave him fresh millet cakes. But things were… different.
A little girl, who used to braid flowers into his sleeve, now ducked behind her mother when he walked past. Two older men glanced at him mid-conversation and fell silent. One woman whispered to another, "His eyes don't blink right anymore."
Aash's mother noticed his silence over breakfast. She said nothing — just placed an extra roti on his plate with a quiet look of worry. By noon, the sun hung pale behind drifting clouds. Aash took the back path toward the woods — not to the shrine, just far enough to breathe. Leaves crunched underfoot. The scent of wild ginger mixed with damp moss. A crow called once — then again, closer this time.
He didn't go far, just enough to be alone. The forest had always been quieter than the village. He found a flat stone and sat, staring at the roots near his feet.
"I remember… Diwali," he murmured. "Feeding dogs on Thursdays. My mother's wheelchair always had that squeaky wheel…"
His voice sounded strange in the open air, like it didn't belong here.
"And I remember that bike ride. Stupid jokes. My friend screaming before the sound went blank."
He looked up at the canopy.
"Why give me a second life… just to haunt me with the last one?"
Nearby, something caught his eye. Half-buried in moss, beneath a thick root, was a smooth, dark stone. He brushed it off — the carving was unmistakable: A Trishul. Not deep. Not glowing. Just… there. He touched it. No sound, no heat. Just a faint tingle, like static under his fingertips.
"It's not mine," he said. "But it feels like it should be."
Above him, the crow landed on a crooked branch. Silent. Watching. That night, sleep did not come easily. When it did, it came in pieces. This time, there were no gods. No thrones. No symbols. Just him.
Aash, seventeen, but not in this world — back in the old one.
He was on the bike again. Helmet loose. Laughter behind him. His friend was saying something he couldn't hear. Then: the screech. The crash. His breath catching mid-sentence.
Time slowed. But this time, he saw something else.
As his body hit the road, something stepped out of it — a shadow, shaped like fire and ash, walking away as his blood spread on the asphalt.
He chased it. Called out. But it didn't turn around. He awoke gasping, heart pounding against ribs like a caged drum. The room was still. Too still. He stepped outside, barefoot. The night was deep — clouds swallowed the moon. The forest whispered. Drawn without thinking, he walked to the treeline. There, on a tree he passed every day, was a new carving. Fresh. Deep.
An eye.
Not a human one. Elongated. Stylized. Bleeding from the edges.
His forehead pulsed. No pain — just a dull heat. And then… the voice.
Not inside his head.
Behind him.
"They've found you."
He turned.
No one was there.
Just the crow, perched above the carving, watching.