The capital of Arkavaira gleamed beneath the sun, polished as if the city itself were a jewel placed upon the earth for this single day. Marble avenues reflected the brilliance of the sky, banners bearing the crowned sun of House Suryavrin fluttered in languid arcs, gold thread catching light like molten whispers. Above all, the Royal Palace rose, its spires tipped with sun-kissed gold, proclaiming to every corner that today was no ordinary day.
Today marked the sixth year of Crown Prince Rudra Suryavrin.
Within the palace grounds, silence held a kind of reverent music. Marble paths gleamed under careful hands, fountains sang in soft, eternal arcs, and gardens bloomed in exacting perfection. Golden lotuses floated upon mirrored ponds, their petals trembling slightly as if bowing to the dawn. Silk canopies filtered sunlight into a warm, ceremonial glow. Crystal lanterns hovered above walkways, awaiting dusk, awaiting fire. Nobles drifted like shadows in a painting, each smile measured, each movement a stanza of power.
Duke Varesh Vyomtara stepped through the gates first, silver-streaked hair bound neatly, violet eyes steady and precise. Behind him, Duchess Elaria moved like liquid grace, her sky-blue hair flowing softly, eyes of pale morning scanning with calm vigilance. Around them, the air itself seemed to bend, bowing to presence unseen yet palpable.
Then came the elders, Sarvani and Achintya, their years and wisdom radiating like quiet constellations.
And then the children.
Six years and two months, yet each step was a sentence of discipline, each glance a verse of awareness. Silver hair threaded with sky-blue glimmered like moonlight on snow. Three pairs of eyes—serene, sharp, piercing—measured everything and betrayed nothing.
Aditya—still, alert, coiled energy beneath restraint.Sasi—gentle, attuned, the calm in the eye of the storm.Aryan—silent, precise, the weight of thought in every measured step.
They bowed together. Perfectly. Not too deep. Not too slow.
Whispers rippled through the court like stirred water:"Those are the Vyomtara children…""So young, yet…""They carry mountains in their veins…"
From the royal balcony, Crown Prince Rudra's gaze lingered. Golden hair bright as sunlight, maroon eyes narrow and calculating, he watched the mountain-born children with measured interest. So these were the whispered ones. The ones who moved like wind and struck like storm.
Trumpets sounded, slicing sunlight with their notes. Noble houses arrived in cadence, each entrance a poem of power. House Kalagnirath moved in silence, midnight robes drinking the day rather than reflecting it. Duchess Kalika Kalagnirath's silver-grey eyes cut through space, slow, precise, as if measuring the pulse of the sun itself.
House Trinetraar followed, a current of disciplined presence flowing through their entrance. Duke Mahendra Trinetraar, elder brother of Duke Varesh Vyomtara, moved with quiet authority, silver hair catching sunlight in deliberate strands. His violet eyes, cold as winter marble, met Varesh's briefly—a nod of blood, not challenge, a silent acknowledgment of shared history.
Behind him, the Trinetraar children mirrored their father's composure. Esha Trinetraar, thirteen, walked with quiet elegance, eyes sharp and aware, every gesture deliberate. Beside her, Rivan Trinetraar, eleven, carried the same measured poise, his gaze observant, careful, restrained. Together, they reflected the balance and discipline of their house.
Watching from the side, Dhanvin Trinetraar, patriarch of the house and father to both Varesh and Mahendra, radiated a calm gravity, like a steady anchor amidst the currents of ceremony. Blood tied them, yet each carried their own measure of authority—distinct, complementary, harmonious.
Whispers rustled through the court:"So Varesh's elder brother… and their children, Esha and Rivan, follow.""The precision runs in their veins…""Family bound, yet each stands alone in measured authority."
Marble beneath their feet seemed to hum with quiet dignity. The Trinetraars moved as a unit, harmonious in presence, subtle in intent—a reminder that lineage can command without clashing.
Then House Agniraath arrived, heat folded into form. Mahadukha Agnivarsha stepped forward, ember-dark hair streaked with black, molten-gold eyes surveying without haste. Ishvari Vahnika moved beside him like disciplined flame. Even fountains paused in their murmur. Mahadukha knelt, and the palace itself seemed to incline.
Finally, laughter rippled. House Mrityujayaal entered, crimson eyes glinting, shadows folding behind their smiles. Duke Kaalasena moved like theater made flesh, his children following: Vayun, tall and measured; Shyra, calculating and still; and Kritav, eight years old, chin lifted, grin sharp as a blade, crimson eyes fixed on the triplets with quiet malice.
The gift ceremony unfolded, each offering a whispered poem of power. Sunsteel blades, star-etched relics, enchanted heirlooms, all pulsing faintly with promise. When House Vyomtara stepped forward, they offered no jewel, no elaborate artifact—only a hand-carved wooden sun disk, polished smooth, etched with three names. Rudra accepted it personally, fingers tracing the grain.
"Thank you," he murmured. The word fell like sunlight across still water.
By afternoon, the court drifted into the Solar Gardens. Marble paths gave way to green, fountains sang in gentle harmonies, sunlight dappled on hedges in flecks of gold. Children wandered, unburdened by ceremony—until Kritav approached.
Three boys trailed him, laughter sharp and careless. He stopped an arm's length from the triplets, eyes flicking over their composed forms.
"So," he said, tilting his head, "these are the mountain brats."
Aditya's fingers clenched. Sasi inhaled, centering himself. Aryan stepped half a pace forward, eyes calm but unyielding.
"We have names," he said quietly, weight carrying like an unseen blade.
Kritav laughed, sharp and brittle. "Do you? Or did the rocks name you? Playing with an old Rishi makes you special? This is the royal garden. Know your place."
Leaves stirred, though no wind moved. Marble underfoot seemed to hold its breath. Aditya's hand twitched, restraint coiling like a spring. Sasi exhaled softly, measured. Aryan's gaze darkened, rooted, immovable.
Beneath the garden stones, something shifted. Not yet released, not yet wild, but alive. The calm before the storm, a sunlit pause that stretched across all eyes.
The fight had not begun.
But it was no longer avoidable.
Under Arkavaira's sun, stillness tightened, and shadows leaned closer, waiting for the spark that would ignite a tale of fire, ice, and steel.