The village of Dharigaon slept beneath a cold gray sky, the dawn wrapped in silence and smoke. Crows cawed from the bare neem tree at the edge of the settlement, their cries slicing through the mist like jagged blades. Clay huts with cracked walls stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the day begin like tired sentinels. One of them, the last hut near the jungle's edge, flickered with the orange glow of a dying fire.
Inside, Arjun crouched before a small hearth, blowing gently into the embers. He was thin—wiry like the coiled bamboo rods the villagers used to tie their roofs. His hands were blackened with soot, his knuckles raw. The fire crackled weakly and clung to life, as stubborn as the boy who fed it.
Behind him, his mother coughed—a deep, wet sound that rattled her chest. She had been sick for months, and the medicine man from the next village had stopped coming. Payment was always in grain or goats, and Arjun had neither.
He looked over his shoulder. Her lips were cracked. Her breath shallow.
"Just a little warmth, Ma," he whispered. "Hold on."
The fire caught. It danced for a moment, casting shadows across the mud walls. Arjun sat back, wiping sweat and ash from his forehead. The room reeked of damp straw and dying hope.
Suddenly—a thud outside. Then another. Laughter. Arjun's face darkened.
He stood and crept to the doorway. Outside, three boys from the village—Ketu, Raghav, and Nilesh—were gathered around the tiny pile of firewood he had stored in secret. They were older, stronger, and cruel in the way only boys raised in desperation could be.
"Look at this," Ketu said, kicking the bundle. "Little rat's been hoarding wood."
Raghav laughed. "You think you're better than us, huh, Arjun? Your mother's dying, and you think you're a prince?"
"Give it back," Arjun said, stepping out, his voice quiet.
The boys turned. Nilesh stepped forward and slapped him—hard. Arjun staggered, but didn't fall.
"Say that again," Nilesh said.
Arjun's cheek burned. Blood pooled in his mouth. But his eyes didn't blink.
He wasn't thinking about himself. He was thinking about the fire. About his mother's trembling body.
"Give it back."
Ketu grabbed a torch. "Let's see how brave you are when we burn it."
Arjun's mind raced. Three against one. They'd beat him to pulp. But he noticed something—the torch. Ketu was careless. Arjun had seen it before. He lit it too high, held it too close. It dripped.
"Go ahead," Arjun said suddenly, voice steeled. "Burn it. All of it. But if you do—" He pointed toward the village square. "You'll miss the real treasure."
The boys paused.
"What?"
Arjun spit blood, then smiled. "There's a stash of dry wood behind the temple wall. Old priest hid it before he died. I saw him. Bigger logs than these. Dry as summer bone. You waste time with my kindling, you'll miss it."
A beat passed. The boys exchanged glances.
"You're lying," Raghav said.
Arjun shrugged. "Believe what you want. But when Pasha the blacksmith wakes up and finds it—don't come crying to me."
They ran.
All three, whooping and laughing.
Arjun exhaled.
When they were gone, he gathered the wood and ran inside. The fire roared to life. His mother stirred.
He sat beside her, silent.
---
That night, the village square burned.
Some drunk had knocked over the torch near the temple wall.
No wood. No stash. No priest.
Just rumors, ashes, and lessons.
---
At dawn, a traveler came.
Cloaked in dusty robes, beard like twisted vines, eyes like molten coal. He sat near Arjun's hut and watched him feed the fire.
"You lied well," the man said.
Arjun didn't flinch.
"I survived."
The man tossed something into the dirt.
A scroll.
Its edges were frayed, its cover worn.
On it were four ancient characters.
Chanakya Niti.
"If you're going to lie," the man said, "learn to do it with purpose."
He vanished before Arjun could ask his name.
But the fire, for once, burned all day.
[End of Chapter 1]