Four Days Later — The Western Ghats
Rain lashed against the jungle canopy like a god's fury, thick and relentless. Birds scattered from the trees as thunder cracked above. The trail was nearly invisible, swallowed by moss and mist, but Diya pressed on.
Behind her, Aarav climbed over gnarled roots, still nursing bruises from their plunge into the frozen river. But his grip on the world had shifted.
The Crown's fire no longer merely obeyed him—it whispered. And sometimes… it warned.
> "The Wheel is near," the voice echoed in his skull, distorted like it was centuries old.
"But so is the one who would corrupt it."
He shook the thought away.
"Is this the place?" Aarav asked as they emerged into a clearing.
Diya pulled a soaked notebook from her satchel and pointed to a crumbling gateway swallowed by vines. An inscription above the arch glowed faintly in the rain—Samsara Mandala.
"This monastery was erased from every map after 1962," she said. "The monks here don't age. They remember everything, even their past lives. They guard the Wheel of Memory—one of the Regalia."
"So, what? They're immortal?"
"No. Worse. They're cursed with perfect memory. They don't forget… anything."
Aarav swallowed hard. "Sounds like a nightmare."
---
Inside the Monastery
The temple was silent. Damp incense clung to the air. Statues of forgotten deities lined the walls—each with two heads: one facing the future, the other the past.
Then, footsteps echoed.
A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, robed in saffron, with a white beard and golden eyes that shimmered unnaturally.
"You carry the Flame," the monk said, voice calm but heavy. "And she carries the burden of truth. Come."
They followed him into a circular chamber.
At the center hovered a giant bronze wheel, suspended in mid-air, its spokes engraved with infinite scripts. Every second, it rotated… and reversed.
Aarav stared, entranced. "Is that… time?"
"No," the monk said. "That is memory. And it is the most dangerous force in existence."
---
The Test
"You seek the Wheel," the monk continued. "But only one with a shattered past may wield it."
Aarav frowned. "Shattered past?"
The monk pointed at his chest. "You don't remember your childhood, do you?"
Aarav froze.
"No parents. No history. No real last name. You've always felt… misplaced. That's because you were."
Diya stepped forward. "What are you saying?"
The monk's golden eyes fixed on her. "He was not born. He was restored."
Then he turned to Aarav. "If you wish to wield the Wheel, you must see what was taken from you."
Before Aarav could resist, the monk raised a hand—and the Wheel flared to life, spinning violently. A blinding light surged forward.
---
Aarav's Mindscape
He stood on a battlefield. But it was not modern.
Ancient elephants crashed through lines of armored men. Flaming chariots tore through the ranks. Blood soaked the earth.
At the center stood… himself.
Not the Aarav he knew.
But a warrior-king, crowned in gold and wielding the Crown of Flame. His voice boomed with divine command as enemies fled before him.
Aarav gasped. "That's… me?"
> "You were Aaravansha—the last Emperor of the Lost Empire," the Watcher whispered.
"Betrayed. Killed. Forgotten. Until now."
Suddenly, the vision changed.
He was on a pyre. Bound. Betrayed by a circle of hooded figures. One of them removed his mask.
A familiar face.
The silver-haired boy.
He was there. He killed Aarav.
Then—a scream.
Aarav clutched his chest, the vision shattering like glass.
---
Back in the Temple
He awoke on the stone floor, drenched in sweat.
Diya knelt beside him. "You were out for hours."
He blinked. "I was a king…"
"Yes," the monk confirmed. "The last of the Regalia-bearers. Your death fractured the Empire."
"But he was there," Aarav growled. "That white-haired freak. He betrayed me even back then."
"He is called Ashvra, the Pale Heir," the monk said. "He seeks the Regalia to rewrite history."
Diya looked uneasy. "If Aarav was an Emperor in a past life… then Ashvra must've been someone just as important."
The monk nodded. "They were born of the same flame… but forged in different shadows."
---
The Wheel Accepts
The Wheel pulsed.
Aarav approached. This time, it didn't resist.
With a single step forward, it descended into his hand, shrinking into a golden timepiece, ancient and cold.
His second Regalia.
As soon as he touched it, visions returned. Cities crumbled. Oceans dried. Wars ignited.
Not the past.
Possible futures.
He blinked them away, nearly collapsing from the overload.
"You must learn to control it," the monk warned. "The Wheel can show all timelines—but only one may be real."
Aarav clenched the timepiece. "Then I'll choose the one where we win."
---
Outside the Temple
That night, while packing their bags, Diya hesitated.
"You've changed," she said.
Aarav raised an eyebrow. "In a good way?"
"In a dangerous way," she murmured. "You don't just want answers anymore. You want revenge."
He turned away. "I want justice. There's a difference."
"Just don't lose yourself to the fire," she said.
He looked down at his hands. They were glowing again.
"I'm already burning," he whispered.
---
Far Away
Ashvra stood at the edge of a desert, gazing into the distance.
Another Regalia pulsed in his hand—The Blade of Echoes, humming with silent screams.
A figure approached him from behind. "The Flame and the Wheel have chosen their heir."
Ashvra smirked. "Then let's give him something he can't stop."
He pointed at the horizon.
"Unleash the Stormborn Djinns. Let's see if his memory helps him survive that."
---
⚡ To be continued...