The Beijing sky was clear, the morning crisp with the kind of calm that made the city feel welcoming. For the Sharma and Yadav families, it was supposed to be a proud day. Dr. Priya Sharma, invited as one of the keynote speakers at an international medical conference, was presenting her groundbreaking work in cardiac surgery. The event was a gathering of the brightest minds in medicine, and for the families, it was also a small holiday together.
Little Mukul was thrilled. At just five years old, the idea of flying on a plane, seeing another country, and exploring hotel corridors felt like the grandest adventure. His sketchbook never left his hands, and as the conference began, he sat in a corner of the VIP lounge, quietly drawing his favourite seven stars again and again.
"Look at him," General Raghav Sharma chuckled softly, standing tall in his crisp uniform even on foreign soil. "Already lost in his own world."
Beside him, Devendra Yadav nodded, though his eyes often lingered protectively on his grandson. The prophecy still weighed heavy on both families, though no one spoke of it out loud.
Inside the grand hall, doctors from every continent filled the rows. Cameras flashed, interpreters spoke in hurried whispers, and the air buzzed with excitement. Priya took the stage with grace, her voice steady and confident as she spoke of new surgical techniques that could save thousands of lives. Mukul, perched on Anand's lap, clapped happily at every pause, even when he didn't understand the words.
Then it happened.
A sound—sharp, deafening—split the air. At first, many thought it was a microphone failing. But then came another, and another. Explosions. Screams tore through the hall as smoke filled the space. Armed men burst through the doors, their shouts harsh and commanding. The peaceful conference turned into chaos in an instant.
"Down! Everyone down!" Anand shouted, pulling Kavya close with one arm and pushing Mukul toward their mother. General Raghav and Colonel Mukesh instinctively moved to shield the family, their training taking over.
Priya clutched Mukul tightly, her heart racing. "Stay with me, baby. Don't let go."
But the attackers were methodical. They fired into the air, scattering the crowd. Security forces scrambled, but the assault was swift and brutal. Amid the chaos, one explosion shook the far end of the hall, collapsing part of the ceiling. The shockwave knocked Priya off balance, and in that split second, Mukul's small hand slipped from hers.
"Mukul!" her voice broke with terror as dust clouded her vision.
Through the haze, Mukul stumbled, coughing, his sketchbook clutched against his chest. Around him, panicked adults rushed in every direction. A masked man grabbed the boy's arm, dragging him toward the side exit along with a handful of other hostages.
"No! Not the child!" Anand cried, pushing forward, but the crowd surged between them. General Raghav tried to advance, but bullets rained across the hall, forcing him to pull his men back to protect the others.
"Mukul! Mukul!" Priya screamed, her voice hoarse as she fought against the tide of terrified people.
The boy turned once, his wide eyes searching the smoke-filled hall. For the briefest moment, his gaze found his mother's. Tears blurred his vision, but he lifted his notebook weakly, showing the seven stars, he had drawn on its cover—as if reminding her, even then, of who he was.
And then he was gone, swallowed into the chaos, carried away by strangers into the dark.
When the attack finally subsided hours later, the conference hall was unrecognizable—broken glass, toppled chairs, and the wails of the wounded filled the space. Survivors clung to each other, but for the Sharma and Yadav families, one truth cut deeper than any wound: Mukul was missing.
Priya collapsed into Rajesh's arms, her sobs shattering the silence. Anand stood motionless, fists clenched, guilt and rage burning in his young eyes. Kavya, still trembling, whispered over and over, "He'll come back… he has to come back."
General Raghav and Devendra Yadav exchanged a look heavy with unspoken fear. The prophecy, once only words, had unfolded before their eyes.
The boy marked by seven stars had been torn from them before his sixth birthday. And though no one knew where he had gone, or what awaited him, one thing was certain: the path of destiny had begun.
Far from the ruins of the conference hall, in the back of a speeding van, little Mukul clutched his sketchbook tightly, the stars on the page glowing faintly under the dim light.
The world had taken him away. But the stars had only just begun to guide him.