The storm was a wrathful god, tearing the sky apart with lightning and drowning the world in its roar. In the heart of the crumbling ruins, two figures stood locked in a tableau of agony.
Agni, his red robes plastered to his skin, held a sword that was the only sliver of cold light in the chaotic dark. His face, a mask of torment, was illuminated by a sudden flash.
Before him stood Neer, his blue robes a stark contrast to the desolation.
"Forgive me... Neer," Agni's voice was a shattered whisper, stolen by the wind. "There was no other path..."
With a cry torn from the depths of his soul, he lunged. The blade sank deep into Neer's abdomen.
Neer crumpled to his knees on the rain-lashed stone. Tears mingled with the downpour on his face, but his lips curved into a faint, heartbreaking smile. Each word was a struggle. "If this... was my destiny... I am blessed... that it is you who holds its pen, Agni."
He shuddered, his gaze holding Agni's. "But there is peace in this. To be with you... at the end... You won't... you won't be able to forget me... will you, Agni?"
Agni watched, helpless, as the light in Neer's stormy eyes stilled. The body in his arms grew heavy, cold, and terribly still.
Suddenly, a strange warmth spread from the sword into Agni's hands. Neer's body began to glow with a soft blue light. The rain around them froze mid-air.
A voice echoed, not from Neer, but from everywhere at once—a voice of prophecy and doom.
"You think this is the end, Agni? This is only the beginning."
Agni staggered back as Neer's eyes snapped open, now glowing with an unearthly blue fire.
In a voice that was not his own, Neer spoke, "We will meet again… in another life, in another form. But next time, I will not be the one dying."
The light exploded, swallowing everything.
---
Agni jolted awake, his body drenched in a cold sweat. The familiar sight of his spartan room in the Gurukul greeted him, the early morning sun filtering through the window. The storm, the ruins, Neer's dying smile—it was all a dream. A dream that had haunted him every night for a month.
His wrist, where the mark of his clan—a stylized flame—was etched, throbbed with a phantom pain.
A voice, laced with familiar mockery, came from the doorway. "Still having bad dreams, O Perfect Prince? You look like you've seen a pishach."
Agni's head snapped up. There, leaning against the doorframe with a infuriatingly casual grace, was Neer. Alive. Whole. His blue eyes sparkling with mischief, a stark contrast to the lifeless orbs from Agni's nightmare.
The sight of him, alive and breathing, sent a wave of violent, inexplicable relief through Agni, so strong it felt like a physical blow.
The prophecy echoed in his mind: "We will meet again… in another life, in another form."
This was no other life. This was now. And the boy standing before him was destined to die by his hand.