For fifty-seven days, the kingdom of Ishkara had lived without a single drop of rain.
The land was cracking open like dry bone; wells turned to pits of dust. The rivers that once carried gold and prayer through the valleys had shrunk to dark scars, and the wind now carried the stench of decay. Every dawn rose heavier than the last, and still the priests sang the same lie — that this was merely a test of faith.
But faith had limits.
High above the dying city, the Palace of Suns burned with silence. Its golden domes shimmered in the heat, though their light could no longer outshine despair. There, at the edge of the eastern balcony, stood Prince Aru Kaelion, son of Ishkara's last king.
He was only twenty, but his face carried the stillness of a man twice his age — the stillness of someone who had buried too many hopes. The drought had stolen his people's crops, his father's mind, and his own belief in the gods. And as he watched the horizon shiver with heat, he whispered to himself,
"If there are gods in the sky, they are deaf."
Behind him, the High Seer approached — a bent old man wrapped in crimson silk, his blind eyes milky with faith. "Careful, my prince," the Seer croaked. "The gods hear all."
Aru turned, bitterness in his voice. "Then let them answer."
The Seer bowed, but his silence said more than any blessing. He left the balcony with slow steps, leaving Aru alone with the heat and the whisper of dying wind.
That night, the palace torches burned low, and the air carried a strange hum — faint, almost like a song beneath the stone. Aru could not sleep. His dreams had turned feverish, filled with echoes of water and whispers calling his name.
He wandered through the Hall of Suns, the most sacred chamber in the palace, where twenty great murals told the kingdom's creation story. Gods of fire, wind, and storm watched from painted thrones — all except one wall. The last mural was gone. Erased.
Smooth marble stretched where the god of beginnings should have been.
Aru stepped closer, running his hand along the blank stone. "Why did they erase you?" he murmured.
The air shifted. A faint voice — not a whisper, but a breath inside his mind — replied:
"Because they feared I would return."
Aru froze. The torches dimmed, flickering blue. He turned sharply, expecting a servant — but the hall was empty.
"Who's there?"
Silence. Then, soft as falling ash:
"You still remember my name."
He stumbled back, torchlight shaking. "This is some priest's trick—"
"No trick. You are blood of the faithless. You are mine."
The flame in his torch suddenly burned gold. Shadows along the walls began to move, twisting like serpents. The murals seemed to breathe — the painted gods trembling, their faces warped with something close to fear.
Aru ran.
Through corridors of echoing footsteps, past the silent guards of stone, until he reached his chamber. But the whisper followed him, curling beneath his heartbeat. He tried to sleep — failed.
When dawn came, the kingdom was covered in dust and dread. A messenger arrived, face pale.
"My prince… the western wells have collapsed. The people are rioting."
Aru clenched his jaw. "Tell my father."
The messenger hesitated. "Your father… does not rise."
In the king's chamber, incense burned thick. The old king lay motionless on his bed, lips cracked like earth. Around his neck hung the Mark of Ishkara, a sun-shaped pendant that had blessed every ruler since the first age. Its glow had died.
The priests called it the will of heaven. Aru called it abandonment.
That evening, as the city prepared for the mourning bells, the ground trembled. A small quake rippled through the palace, shaking the Hall of Suns. Dust fell from the ceiling, and somewhere deep below, something boomed — a slow, heavy pulse that felt alive.
Aru followed the sound.
Down past the royal catacombs, through forgotten stairways sealed by centuries of dust, until he found a stone door he had never seen before. Strange runes glowed faintly across its surface — letters of a language older than Ishkara itself.
The hum was louder here. Every beat echoed like a heartbeat.
He raised his torch. The golden flame bent forward, drawn to the door as though it knew its master.
Then the voice came again, not whispering this time, but speaking — calm, ancient, beautiful, and terrible.
"You have found me, son of Kaelion."
Aru's heart pounded. "Who are you?"
"I was the first. The forgotten one. They sealed me when your fathers broke their vows. The gods you pray to were thieves — and I was the fire they feared."
The runes pulsed brighter, the air humming with energy. The torch melted in his hand, gold dripping like tears.
Aru stepped back. "If you are a god, then why hide beneath my feet?"
"Because they chained me here, using your bloodline as the key. And now, the key has come."
The door began to tremble. The stone cracked, releasing a wave of cold air that smelled of storms long dead.
"Free me, and I will bring rain. I will return life to Ishkara. But know this, prince — the first rain will not fall upon your fields. It will fall upon your hands."
Aru's breath caught. "What does that mean?"
"That all beginnings must be paid for in blood."
He hesitated, trembling. The drought. His dying people. His father's lifeless body.
"Then take mine," he whispered.
He pressed his palm against the door. The runes flared blinding white — and a scream of wind and light tore through the hall.
The earth above split. Black rain poured from the heavens for the first time in fifty-seven days. The people of Ishkara wept, believing the gods had returned.
But in the palace depths, Aru fell to his knees as the door cracked open.
From within, a hand of molten gold reached out — long, elegant, and dripping fire. A voice thundered through his mind:
"The world forgot my name, but you will remind them."
The door shattered.
A figure stepped out — neither man nor god — cloaked in chains that burned with starlight. Eyes like eclipses met Aru's.
"You have freed me."
Aru tried to speak, but the air was gone.
The god smiled.
"Now let the world remember its sin."
Lightning split the palace roof in half. The Hall of Suns collapsed. And as the kingdom screamed beneath the falling sky, the voice of the forgotten god rose like thunder — laughing.