Morning came wrapped in silver fog.
Aash stood at the edge of the village fields, watching mist curl around the trees like fingers searching for something lost. Then he saw it—
Between the trunks.
Unmoving. Distant.
A figure.
Cloaked in gray. Head tilted. Watching.
He blinked.
It was gone.
Later, while collecting firewood in the outer groves, he leaned against an old tree and closed his eyes.
A sharp, splitting ache crawled up his spine—
And then, the world cracked open.
In his mind, he saw a colossal statue of Shiva, broken clean down the center.
Blood poured from its third eye.
A sky of ash rumbled overhead.
And deep within a chasm, a horned beast bound in chains of fire let out a scream—
Silent, yet soul-piercing.
The vision ended in a heartbeat.
Aash dropped to his knees, gasping.
Above him, a bird burst apart mid-flight—feathers scattering like embers.
One floated down near his hand, its edges still smoking.
He touched it gently, as if it might speak.
"What are you trying to show me?" he whispered.
That night, the village felt wrong.
Crows lined the rooftops in perfect silence.
Dogs howled toward a moon they couldn't see.
Even the wind moved without making sound.
A man went missing after stepping out to relieve himself. His brother blamed a wild beast.
But Aash saw the footprints.
Not animal.
Not human.
And not alone.
That same night, as he lay in bed, the whispers returned—
No longer vague.
"You are being hunted, boy of silence."
Unable to sleep, Aash stepped out near midnight to draw water.
The village slept. The sky was pale with starlight.
He reached the well, leaned over, and—
A sound.
Not wind. Not leaves.
Something moving.
A blade flashed toward his neck from behind.
Before he could scream, a body collided with his—shoving him aside.
A crack. A dull red flash. A scream swallowed by the dark.
He hit the ground hard.
When his vision cleared—
"Maahi?"
She lay beside him, unmoving.
Her breath came in faint, slow pulls.
Blood darkened her shawl.
Above them, a figure loomed—hooded, face hidden behind a silver mask.
Its robes drifted like ash, yet it stood still.
The attacker tilted its head—studying Aash, as if deciding something.
Then—vanished.
Not fled.
Just… disappeared.
The village stirred with shouting.
Lights flickered in nearby homes.
But Aash didn't hear them.
He knelt by his mother, eyes wide, throat closed.
He felt no heat. No fury.
Just emptiness.
They carried Maahi inside.
The healer came. Herbs were burned. Chants were whispered.
But Maahi did not wake.
"Not a wound of blade," the healer finally said. "A wound of spirit."
Aash sat beside her bed, unmoving.
Even her breath sounded borrowed.
Much later, when all was quiet, the whisper returned.
It wasn't cruel.
Just… final.
"The Eye sleeps no longer. Neither can you."
Aash sat beside Maahi's bed as dawn slipped quietly into the room.
Her breath was faint—steady like a thread pulled too thin.
She hadn't moved since the attack.
Outside, the village had gone silent.
Not out of respect.
Out of fear.
They whispered now. Watched from corners.
No one dared speak to him directly.
Only one dared enter the hut.
An elder—skin wrinkled like old paper, eyes dim but steady—knelt beside Aash without a word.
For a long time, they sat in silence.
Then, the elder spoke.
"There was once a man," he said, "who bore a mark no one could see… until it burned."
Aash turned slightly toward him.
"They say the mark was a god's burden—not a gift. That the god gave it away not out of kindness… but because he couldn't carry it anymore."
The old man placed a shaking hand on Aash's shoulder.
"There is more to mercy than kindness, boy. Sometimes, mercy is abandoning your own will."
He left without waiting for a reply.
Aash stared at Maahi.
His fists tightened.
That evening, as mist crept low along the ground, a wandering priest entered Mrigdhar.
Blind in one eye, draped in saffron and bones, he walked without a cane and spoke to no one.
Villagers bowed low, whispering his name—though none knew it.
He stopped outside Aash's hut.
"Child," the priest said, voice like dry wind, "you carry the wound of silence."
Aash didn't reply.
The priest sat beside him.
"You bear it, don't you? The mark that was sealed… and the silence that should have spoken."
Still, Aash said nothing.
"I do not fear you," the priest continued. "But I pity you. Shiva's tears fall not from guilt… but memory."
From his robe, the priest drew a small black bead.
A Trishul and crescent moon were carved into it—delicate, exact.
"When it burns, run. When it weeps… speak."
He placed it in Aash's hand, stood, and disappeared into the fog.
No one saw him leave.
That night, Aash walked to the old shrine alone.
He sat before it—not to pray, but to challenge.
"If you wanted a servant, you chose wrong," he said softly.
"If you want a vessel… speak."
The bead in his hand grew warm.
The Trishul tattoo on his back pulsed faintly.
The world stilled. His breath froze.
A vision overtook him.
A sky of fire.
A land of ash.
A colossal statue of Shiva—split in half.
From its third eye, blood streamed.
Chained in darkness below stood a horned Asura, laughing as flames licked his skin.
And between them—Aash.
Bare. Kneeling.
His eyes wide. His back burning with light.
Then came the voice.
Clear. Calm. Unavoidable.
"I am what was sealed when Shiva could not bear to watch.
I am the Eye that remains when gods look away."
The words rang through his chest.
"You are not chosen to fight.
You are chosen because a god's regret needs a body."
Aash awoke outside the shrine, gasping.
The bead in his hand was cold again.
But his back ached.
And his thoughts felt carved in stone.
When he returned home, he found villagers gathered outside his hut.
No one spoke.
In the dirt near the doorway, someone—or something—had burned symbols.
Ancient. Red. Still smoldering.
A warning.
Aash stepped inside.
Everything was untouched… except the wall above Maahi's bed.
There, in glowing, blood-colored script, a message had been carved into the wood:
"Return what is not yours…
or she dies in truth."
He turned to Maahi.
Her chest rose.
Then fell.
And didn't rise again.