Chapter 1: The Mechanic Who Married a Queen
The hum of engines and the scent of grease were Aarav D'Souza's constant companions. His world was made of rusted bolts, busted radiators, and the occasional curse word hurled by impatient customers. He didn't mind it, though. The workshop was the only place where he felt truly useful—where no one cared about his empty pockets or the shadows of his past.
The rest of the world? Not so kind.
"Aarav, hurry up! We've got a Bentley due in twenty minutes!" yelled Uncle Bhushan, the owner of the garage and the closest thing to family Aarav had.
"On it," Aarav called back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
His phone buzzed on the bench. A single message lit the cracked screen.
"Family Dinner. Be there by 7. Wear something 'respectable.' - Kiara"
Aarav stared at it for a long moment. He didn't need to be reminded. Family dinners at the Malhotra mansion weren't meals—they were battlefields.
He sighed and looked down at his oil-stained overalls. He didn't belong in their world. But he had made a promise to his dying guardian that he'd never run away from responsibility—no matter how bitter the taste.
---
That Night – Malhotra Mansion
The mansion glittered like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Marble floors, chandeliers, servants in black and white—it screamed wealth and status. Aarav felt like a speck of dirt on a wedding cake.
As he stepped into the drawing room, heads turned. Laughter paused. Eyes narrowed.
"There he is. The son-in-law from the gutter," sneered Mr. Rajendra Malhotra, Kiara's father, a man whose voice could silence rooms and break hearts.
Aarav bowed his head in greeting. "Good evening, sir."
Rajendra sipped his wine. "Is it? I thought evenings were for men who had jobs."
Before Aarav could respond, Kiara walked in wearing a dark green evening gown, looking like royalty itself. She didn't spare him a glance. Not anymore.
Dinner was an exercise in restraint. Every bite tasted like insult. The topics danced between stocks, politics, and Kiara's upcoming fashion show. Aarav's name never came up—unless it was followed by laughter.
"Tell me, Aarav," said Mrs. Malhotra with a smile too tight to be real, "have you fixed any broken bikes lately? Or just your broken dreams?"
A few guests chuckled.
Aarav smiled tightly. "Dreams aren't broken, ma'am. They're just waiting for the right fuel."
---
Later That Night – The Storage Room
He couldn't sleep. Not in that cold guest room where even the sheets smelled of judgment. He wandered down to the old storage area, a dusty room with discarded boxes and forgotten memories.
One particular box caught his eye. It had his name—"Aarav D'Souza"—scrawled in faded ink.
He opened it.
Inside were a few old clothes, a journal wrapped in red cloth, and a strange metal pendant shaped like a dragon's claw holding a jewel.
The moment he touched it, a pulse of heat ran up his arm.
The jewel lit up—faintly. Then pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
He stumbled back, heart racing. "What the hell?"
The room darkened for a second, as if shadows had leaned in. A whisper echoed in his ears.
"Blood remembers. The legacy awakens..."
The pendant's glow faded.
He stared at it, his breath shallow.
"What are you…?"
He didn't know it yet—but that single touch had awakened something ancient. A bloodline lost in history. A destiny wrapped in secrecy. And a war that had been waiting… just for him.