The world of Aryava was one where myth and reality walked hand in hand.
Devas ruled from their shining heavens, Asuras schemed from their abyssal fortresses, and men built kingdoms that trembled between the two extremes.
Here, power was not measured by gold or steel alone—it was measured by Astra Shakti, the divine resonance that bound mortals to the echoes of gods. Each child born into a great clan was tested, to see whether the blood of the ancients still whispered within them. Those with blessings were trained to command lightning, fire, storms, or even celestial weapons. Those without? They became the forgotten—dust in the grand wheel of fate.
Among the human dynasties, none shone brighter than the Kuru Clan.
Theirs was a lineage blessed by Indra himself, guardians of the northern plains, rulers of great cities where scholars, warriors, and sages gathered. The Kuru crest—a thunderbolt wrapped in a lotus—was feared and respected across kingdoms.
But prestige was not uniform. Power made some noble, and others cruel. Within the sprawling palace-fortress of Hastinapura, a thousand rivalries brewed, hidden beneath the polished marble and golden banners.
And in the heart of this storm was a boy—Aarav Kuru.
---
From his earliest days, Aarav had been the pride of his branch of the clan. Unlike many arrogant scions, he was quiet, observant, and diligent. He listened to the wisdom of elders without question, remembered every verse of ancient hymns, and showed creativity in arts and strategy.
When his tutors tested him, he solved riddles faster than anyone his age. When the clan's veterans discussed politics, he listened with a seriousness that made them chuckle, but secretly admire.
"Mark my words," one elder had said when Aarav was only seven, "this child may outshine even the crown prince one day."
His parents—Lord Devendra and Lady Kaushalya—watched him with pride. His mother's eyes sparkled when he recited the Vedas flawlessly. His father laughed when Aarav beat grown warriors at complex strategy games. And above all, his elder sister, Anaya, adored him. She often pulled him into the palace gardens, whispering stories, protecting him from jealous cousins, and promising, "No matter what happens, little brother, I will always stand with you."
For a while, life was golden. Aarav was seen as the child of destiny.
But destiny is fickle.
---
When Aarav turned eleven, the day of the Rite of Resonance arrived.
This was the test that determined the future of every Kuru child. The fire-pits were lit, the hymns of Agni were chanted, and the elders waited for the divine glow that marked the awakening of Astra Shakti.
One by one, the children stepped forward. Flames leapt, winds danced, waters stirred. Each revealed a spark of celestial blood.
When Aarav stepped into the sacred circle, the entire clan held its breath. Surely, the prodigy would shine the brightest. Surely, the gods would bless him.
But nothing happened.
No fire. No wind. No whisper of divine energy.
The flames remained still, cold, indifferent.
Whispers spread through the crowd. The elders frowned. Aarav stood frozen, waiting, praying—but the silence of the gods was absolute.
"A… a mistake," one of his uncles muttered. "Perhaps the ritual must be repeated."
But even after three attempts, the truth was undeniable.
Aarav Kuru, the boy thought to be touched by destiny—was powerless.
---
That was the day the whispers changed.
"Genius? What genius? A puppet with no strings!"
"He obeyed well, yes—but what use is obedience without power?"
"Even the gods reject him."
Once respected, now he was pitied, mocked, and slowly isolated. His cousins sneered at him openly, the servants treated him with contempt, and those who once praised his diligence now ignored him entirely.
But Aarav endured it all.
He bowed to the elders. He continued to train in strategy, philosophy, and knowledge. He smiled to his sister and said, "It doesn't matter, Anaya. Perhaps I am not meant for fire or wind. Perhaps I will carve my path with wisdom instead."
Yet deep down, doubt gnawed at him. Why had the gods abandoned him? Why did the heavens stay silent when he prayed the hardest?
---
Years passed. Aarav grew sharper, more cunning, and even more observant, though the clan only saw weakness in him. His sister remained his only source of warmth. His parents, though often away on diplomatic journeys and wars, still wrote him letters of encouragement.
But shadows were gathering.
Envy brewed in certain hearts, and hatred festered in silence. And soon, that hatred would strike a blow so deep, it would change Aarav's fate forever..
------------------
If Aarav was a silent moon, then his sister, Anaya Kuru, was the blazing sun.
By the age of fifteen, Anaya had awakened not only the flame of Agni but also earned the whispered blessing of Devi Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom and grace. When she trained in the courtyard, fire coiled around her hands like obedient serpents. When she recited hymns, the priests themselves paused to listen, humbled by the clarity of her voice.
Her beauty only magnified her aura. She had her mother's luminous skin, her father's proud bearing, and eyes that shimmered like molten gold. Her hair, black as midnight, danced in the wind when she sparred, and when she smiled, even rival princes felt their hearts falter.
"Anaya is not just a daughter of the Kuru Clan," one visiting Yadav prince whispered, "she is its future queen."
The elders agreed. Where Aarav was mocked as powerless, Anaya was lifted as the jewel of the clan. Gifts from noble houses poured in—silks, jewelry, proposals of alliance. The people adored her, the gods seemed to favor her, and her power grew each year like a flame consuming the sky.
And yet, she never abandoned her brother.
Whenever Aarav sat alone in the palace library, drowning himself in scrolls of philosophy and warcraft, Anaya would slip in quietly, place a warm hand on his shoulder, and say, "You don't need fire, Aarav. Your mind burns brighter than any flame."
He smiled, but deep inside, he wondered if even she truly believed it.
---
Their father, Lord Devendra, was a man of iron will and battlefield glory. His armor was said to shine brighter than the sun when he rode to war, and his enemies trembled at the thunder of his chariot wheels. Stern but just, he demanded discipline from his children, yet carried a deep pride in their achievements.
Their mother, Lady Kaushalya, was known for her wisdom and beauty, her counsel sought even by sages. She carried herself with dignity, her laughter rare but warm, her words sharp yet filled with care. It was said that in her youth, even celestial beings admired her.
Together, they were pillars of the clan—respected, feared, and loved.
But the fate of pillars is that they are often away, supporting empires elsewhere. And it was in their absence that the storm would fall upon Aarav.
---
It was supposed to be a day of festivity.
The Yadav Clan, allies and rivals in equal measure, had come to the Kuru stronghold. Their leader, Raja Viraat Yadav, arrived with a small retinue and his only daughter, Princess Shraya Yadav, a maiden praised in all of Aryavarta for her beauty. Her arrival sent whispers rippling through the palace—men spoke of her moonlit complexion, her voice like the veena's song, and her smile that could sway even the sternest of elders.
The Kuru lords received them with honor. Banquets were laid, poets sang of the friendship between Yadavs and Kurus, and children ran through the courtyards in merriment. For Aarav, it was another day of shadows—he stayed quiet at the edge of the feast, watching his sister Anaya radiate like the sun while Shraya basked in admiration.
He bowed politely when Shraya passed him, but she barely noticed him. Why would she? He was the powerless Kuru, the forgotten son.
But when dawn broke the next day, the palace's golden peace shattered.
A scream pierced the air. Servants rushed toward the Yadav quarters, guards stumbled over one another, and soon the entire household swarmed to the commotion.
There she was—Princess Shraya---was found weeping, her silken clothes torn, her honor stained. Her tear-stained eyes, dark lines running down her cheeks, held a broken sort of dignity.
"My daughter!" roared Raja Viraat, his voice shaking the very pillars of the palace. "Who dares touch the honor of the Yadavs under this roof?"
The girl sobbed, her voice breaking, but her words cutting through the hall like thunder:
"Aarav… Aarav Kuru…"
The hall erupted in fury. The Yadavs were a proud and powerful clan, second only to the Kurus in influence. Their wrath was swift.
"He has defiled our daughter!" the Yadav patriarch roared. "This powerless wretch dares soil the blood of Yadavas? We demand justice!"
Evidence appeared—too conveniently. A torn bracelet of the princess was found in Aarav's chamber. Servants swore they had seen him near her quarters. The clan elders, blind with rage and fear of political fallout, turned their fury upon the boy.
Aarav stood trembling, his heart pounding, as accusations rained upon him.
"I did not!" he cried. "I swear upon the gods, upon every truth of this world—I would never!"
But the hall was deaf to his voice.
His parents were absent—away on a crucial diplomatic mission. His sister, Anaya, stood frozen, her hands trembling. She wanted to defend him, to scream his innocence, but the weight of politics crushed her voice. The entire clan watched her, expecting her to condemn or support. And she, torn between love for her brother and fear of igniting war with the Yadavs, lowered her eyes in silence.
That silence was sharper than any blade.
---
The elders declared Aarav guilty.
He was dragged into the courtyard, beaten by guards, spat upon by cousins who once envied his wit. The crowd jeered.
"This is what becomes of a powerless pretender!"
"A shame to the Kurus!"
"Even the gods denied him, and now he defiles mortals!"
His fiancée, Princess Amara of the Chandravanshi Clan—the radiant daughter of the ruling dynasty, once promised to him in a bond of eternal loyalty—stepped forward. Her cold eyes shimmered with disdain, all warmth erased as though their years of betrothal meant nothing. With deliberate cruelty, she tore the engagement band from her wrist, its silver threads catching the torchlight, and cast it at his feet. The resounding clink on the marble floor echoed louder than any accusation. In that single moment, his honor, his future, and his last hope were shattered.
"I will not be bound to filth," she said, her voice icy, her beauty now a dagger of betrayal.
Aarav looked at her, then at his sister, who wept silently, unable to move.
And in that moment, something inside him shattered.
---
They threw him into the dungeons, broken, bloodied, forgotten. He lay there, staring into the darkness, his mind replaying the voices, the contempt, the silence of those he loved.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Why do the gods curse me? Why does truth not matter? Why does power blind justice?"
The darkness did not answer. But then—something stirred.
A voice, cold and ancient, slithered into his mind.
"You have been abandoned by gods… but I… I am no god."
Symbols flared in the darkness, shadows coiling around his broken body. A black screen materialized before his eyes, glowing with words only he could see:
[SYSTEM INITIATED]
Welcome, Shadow Sovereign.