The rebel compound hummed with unease. Not from alarms or attacks, but from a quieter kind of tension—the kind that curled in your gut and clung to your chest like damp cloth. Days had passed since Shivam collapsed in the hall, eyes vacant, body still, and though the medics continued to assure them he was "stable," the word had begun to lose meaning.
Something wasn't right. Naina felt it in the silence between footsteps, in the guarded glances of passing medics, and most of all, in the absence of Shivam's voice. She didn't like being left out of answers. Not when it came to him.
The courtyard buzzed with low murmurs, the occasional clash of training weapons echoing in the open air. It was here that Aman, Aanchal, Dikshant, and Naina began discovering the edges of their potential—awkward at first, but slowly sharpening. The rebel compound's training instructors allowed them freedom to experiment at first, encouraging them to choose weapons that "felt right," not just those assigned.
Aman had picked up the double-edged spear almost instinctively. Others had laughed at his choice—it wasn't common among new recruits—but Aman had spun it around like a dance partner. "Feels like it moves with me," he'd said with a grin. The more he trained, the more it showed. Though his footwork was still clumsy, his timing improved with every session, as if his body was remembering an ancient rhythm. The spear became less a weapon and more an extension of his will.
Dikshant, ever the showman, was drawn to the flash and flair of twin daggers. He said he liked their speed and symmetry—how they fit into his hands like they belonged there. His movements were unpredictable, almost chaotic, but strangely effective. He missed often, but laughed louder when he finally landed a perfect throw. "I like the closeness," he once muttered, panting after a drill. "These force you to be personal. To look someone in the eyes."
Aanchal's path was different. She spent time trying various weapons before settling on a straight-edged saber. It wasn't flashy, but it was clean, balanced, and reliable. She trained alone more often than not, quietly repeating strikes and stances with methodical precision. Her instructors noticed it too—how she didn't need praise or correction. She adjusted herself. Measured. Composed. "She doesn't fight for show," one of them murmured. "She fights to finish it."
Naina had wandered through the armory with quiet detachment until her fingers brushed the curved wood of a recurve bow. There was something calming about it. Not powerful, not aggressive—but precise. Her early shots were wild, frustrating even, but slowly she began to sense the bow's rhythm. She wasn't fast, but she was patient. Steady. Focused. "It's like breathing with purpose," she told Aman once, pulling an arrow from the target. "It forces you to see things differently."
That evening, Aanchal approached Naina, who was adjusting the fletching of her arrows.
"Still hog the last samosas in your dreams?" Aanchal asked casually, dropping beside her.
Naina raised an eyebrow. "Still make excuses to skip class when there's a quiz?"
Aanchal chuckled. "I see we've both matured."
A moment passed, quiet but warm. Then Aanchal leaned back, arms behind her head.
"I was kind of a jerk when we first got here," she admitted.
"You were stressed," Naina replied. "We all were. But I'm glad you're here too."
Aanchal gave a small smile. "I'm glad you're not still the rule-book wielding prefect."
"I burned it," Naina said dryly. "Figuratively."
Their laughter echoed softly in the courtyard. For a moment, things felt normal. Whole.
But as night fell, unease returned like a cold draft through stone walls.
"They're stalling," Naina muttered, staring into her untouched dinner.
Aman looked up. "What?"
"They say Shivam's stable. But they won't let us see him. Won't tell us what's happening. No updates. Just vague reassurances."
"They're protecting him," Aanchal said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"No," Naina said sharply. "They're hiding something. And it's not just about medical safety. They know something we don't."
Her eyes followed a trio of rebel medics walking by. They looked away too quickly.
"They're afraid," she whispered.
Shivam drifted in a void where time unraveled.
To the others, it had only been three days. But inside this strange, glowing realm stitched from his memories and fears, he had walked for what felt like lifetimes. Centuries seemed to pass. His school hallways became endless mazes. Familiar voices looped, distorted by echoes of forgotten guilt and pain. The basketball court blurred into stars. The wind sang with memories he hadn't made yet.
Then came the voice—not spoken, but felt in every cell.
"Shivam," it said.
When the figure emerged from the light, it took the form of his father.
"Dad?" he whispered.
The apparition nodded. "I am what remains. The shard of me you carry. The part that believed in who you could become."
"Why am I here?"
"Because your soul touched the core of Noctirum. And now, it calls to you. It is shaping you."
What followed wasn't training in the physical sense. There were no swords, no weights. Only memories replayed with excruciating detail—failures, regrets, moments of fear and shame. Shivam was made to relive them all, not to punish, but to understand. To accept.
"You must bear them," the voice said. "Only then can you rise."
He wept once. Screamed once. Then walked forward anyway.
Time meant nothing. He meditated through storms, learned to control his thoughts, learned to will himself into motion. When he finally leapt into the air, gravity bowed beneath him. When he struck the earth, it cracked with light. He began to understand.
His strength wasn't given—it was uncovered. Born of will. Of love. Of a bond to something ancient and dangerous.
"You are not made to conquer," the voice told him. "You are made to endure. To protect. Your body will carry force. Your mind will fracture and rebuild. And when you awaken, the world will not be the same."
At night, under the stars and flickering lanterns, the group often gathered in one of the abandoned supply tents—half shelter, half hangout. There, amid old crates and scuffed floors, they'd compare bruises, mock each other's fumbles, and share quiet pride over what they'd learned.
Aman boasted about finally disarming a rebel trainer during a sparring match. Dikshant mimed an exaggerated version of his tumble-roll-dagger-throw routine, earning groans and laughter. Aanchal simply said she'd improved her reaction time, while Naina described the meditative stillness that came before releasing an arrow.
But even in those moments of warmth, Naina couldn't shake the growing weight on her chest.
"They're not telling us everything," she said one night, voice low, as if afraid the shadows were listening. "About Shivam. About… all of this."
The others fell silent.
"They say he's stable, but no one's allowed to see him. Not even us. And every time I ask, they deflect. The medics. The commanders. Even that rebel healer with the tattoos—he looks away when I mention Shivam's name."
Aman frowned. "You think something's wrong with him?"
"I think something's wrong with them," Naina replied. "Or… they know something they don't want us to know. Something big."
No one responded at first. The fire cracked quietly between them.
Finally, Aanchal spoke. "If they're hiding something, we'll find out. They won't be able to keep it from us forever."
Naina nodded, but her eyes remained distant, fixed on the darkness beyond the tent flaps.
She didn't know what frightened her more: that they were being lied to—or that the truth was something even worse.