Village of Namaras, Kingdom of Surabhan
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Mornings in Namaras didn't begin with roosters.
They began with smoke.
Thick, spiced, mouth-clinging smoke that slithered out of the chimney at Salt & Smoke, drifted through the village, and woke up every stomach within a half-mile radius.
Inside, behind a scalding stove and a wall of sizzling pans, stood a man who didn't shout.
Didn't smile.
Didn't need help.
Varunath.
He moved like a ghost trained in close-quarters culinary warfare—dodging oil splashes, flipping hot flatbread one-handed, swatting a fly mid-air with a ladle. All while a cradle sat next to the spice shelf, rocking ever so slightly.
Customers packed the dhaba by sunrise. Hunters, traders, warriors, loud mouths with louder egos. The usual crowd.
Plates hit tables. Cups clinked. Laughter, shouting, arm wrestling, flirtations, lies, business deals.
It was chaos.
But not one person bumped into Varunath.
He served. Sat. Cleaned cups with a cloth older than most of his customers.
And he watched.
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"RAAAAH—!!"
An arm-wrestling match started to escalate. Chairs screeched. Fists clenched.
Varunath looked up.
Just once.
A calm, hollow stare. Not anger. Not threat. Just...lack of permission.
The table instantly calmed. One of them suddenly remembered they needed to check on their goat.
---
A man in travel-worn boots leaned over to his friend.
"Hey," he whispered, nodding toward the corner where Varunath sat with the cradle beside him.
"Who's the guy with the death glare? He even blink?"
The local scoffed.
"That's Varunath. Everyone knows him. They just don't mess with him."
"Why?"
"Because no one's ever seen what happens if you do."
The traveler squinted. "And the kid?"
"Picked it outta the sewers."
"No way."
"You wanna go ask him?"
"...Nope."
The cradle creaked softly. The baby inside—Rudrasar—was half asleep, gripping the edge like he'd already made a pact with gravity. A tiny fist twitched in a dream, or maybe a warning.
---
Varunath didn't listen to their whispers. Didn't need to.
His eyes were somewhere else.
Somewhen else.
---
Once, there was a boy who smiled while chopping onions.
Who laughed when the customers teased him.
Who served food like it was a prayer to the world.
His name was also Varunath.
He was nineteen.
---
He remembered the letter.
Sealed in red.
"DraftedbyRoyal Edict – Deployment: Warfront – The shattersoil conflict."
That was the war's name. The Shattersoil War.
Because the land itself had cracked from the blood spilled on it.
He remembered his father's hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be back. Nothing dangerous. You're just a helper. They need cooks too."
They didn't.
They needed bodies.
---
He remembered screams louder than the cannons.
Rain that wasn't rain.
Men older than him, sobbing like children before they were crushed by falling stone or split by blade.
He remembered swinging a rusted weapon until it wasn't rusted anymore.
He remembered charging, alone, into a field that had no one left to protect.
He remembered...
becoming a creature the others stopped calling by name.
By the end, his fingers had callused into claws.
His eyes forgot how to blink.
His muscles trembled even in sleep—when sleep bothered to visit.
He remembered being pulled from the rubble.
Not because he was a hero.
Because he was the last one breathing.
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When he returned…
The dhaba was shuttered.
His father's grave was marked by a rusted ladle.
And the village whispered too loudly when he passed.
He didn't cry.
It felt…bothersome.
So he opened the dhaba again.
And left the rest of himself somewhere between the trenches and the spice rack.
---
Now, years later, he sat in silence, staring through the present like it owed him an explanation.
In the cradle beside him, the child stirred.
Let out a tiny cough.
Varunath blinked once. Just once.
Then went back to cleaning cups.
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