Long before the rains and the cries of Rudrasar, there was another sound that filled the air —
the clang of metal, the rhythm of a young man's laughter echoing through the narrow streets of Namaras.
Varunath was only nineteen — though the way his eyes caught sunlight made him seem older, brighter.
Back then, he was the warmth of the dhaba, the life that drew travelers from distant dunes and cities.
His laughter carried through the crowd, his food brought peace even to men who had known only war.
He was the spotlight, as the locals called him — not just because of the restaurant, but because he shone.
His father, savarith, used to stand behind the counter, arms crossed, proud.
He often said,
"When I'm gone, this place will never be dark — not while my boy's here."
Varunath would just laugh and keep stirring the pot, as if the world would always stay that kind.
But one day, a letter came.
Sealed with the mark of Surabhan's council, carried by a trembling courier.
"(The black harvest)War drafting— every able man must serve the front."
Bhairav's hands shook when he read it. His eyes darted to his son, still smiling in the kitchen's glow.
He tried to laugh it off, telling him,
"you're a cook, boy. They'll need your food, not your sword."
But both of them knew — there were no safe roles in a war built on desperation.
---
The battlefield was not a place meant for laughter.
Varunath saw no fire pits, no kitchens — only torn banners, mud, and blood that swallowed the ground.
Every dawn brought a new pile of faces that had names once.
And every night, fewer voices answered the roll call.
At first, he screamed with them. Then, he stopped.
The day came when his spear shattered, his arm bleeding too much to hold it.
So he tied it to himself — fastened with a strip of his torn shirt —
and charged.
He no longer heard the screams of others, nor his own.
Something primal had replaced mercy — the will to keep moving, to keep killing before being killed.
They said one boy cut through lines of men like a storm through dry leaves.
Reinforcements came — iron, gunpowder, the weapons of the higher kingdoms —
but he did not break. He couldn't.
They called him many names after that.
"Beast."
"The last marcher."
But the one that stayed — whispered by survivors, cursed by generals —
was
"Ghost."
Because when they looked into his eyes, from afar...they saw nothing looking back.
---
When the silence came, it was worse than the screams.
Varunath sat beneath a tent made of corpses — comrades who would never go home.
He didn't weep. He didn't pray.
He just sat.
And then, slowly, he picked up a shard of metal from the ground.
If the world was so desperate to end lives, he thought, then he would end his too.
The blade cut deep, again and again, through already-broken flesh.
But before the darkness took him, he saw something —
a wisp of smoke shaped like his father's hand, resting gently on his shoulder.
"It's not your time, kiddo."
Then, nothing.
---
When he opened his eyes again, he was back in Surabhan.
The same walls, the same air — but not the same man.
His father was gone, buried beneath wilted flowers.
The dhaba stood empty, dust gathering where laughter once lived.
People stared when he walked through the streets.
The whispers followed him:
"he came back..."
"The only survivor..."
"He was better off dead.."
He didn't respond.
Didn't cry.
Didn't even blink.
He just looked up at the grave, smirked faintly, and muttered,
"...What a bother."
And from that day, the boy who once smiled through the smoke of spices
became the man who now stood in silence behind his counter —
his thumb tracing the scar that never let him forget.
His thoughts broke when Sahana's voice pulled him back.
"Hey. You zoned out again."
"its...nothing."
he murmured, the word almost lost in the hum of the restaurant.
"Go home."
He glanced toward the sleeping infant on the counter.
A strange calm filled him — not warmth, not love, but something older.
Perhaps the faint echo of purpose.
For the first time in years...
The Ghost felt the faintest flicker of light.
And it came from a cradle.