✨ **Soul Verse**
*Ek shabd hota.*
*Ek paan hote.*
*Ek ghoda hota.*
*Ek jeevan suru jhale.*
(One word. One leaf. One horse. One awakening begins.)
The mist enveloped the fort like a lingering memory, thick and enigmatic. Veeraj stood at the edge of the rampart, the wind tugging playfully at his robes. Below, the ancient jungle pulsed with life—vibrant green and full of secrets, as if it were listening to his every thought. Beneath his feet, the stone was marked by a faint spiral, not merely a product of erosion and time, but a प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra)—a soul spiral, a symbol of life's eternal cycle.
He didn't quite understand why he had felt the urge to come here alone; he only knew that some invisible force had beckoned him here.
Malhar arrived breathless, his sword resting loosely at his side. "You shouldn't be here," he warned, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting their father's shadow to loom behind him. "Your father is asking for you."
"Let him wait," Veeraj replied, his voice steady yet distant. "There's something older than politics at play here."
Malhar's brow furrowed as he studied Veeraj. "You sound like Swami Rudraprakash, brooding and contemplative."
A smile crept across Veeraj's lips. "Maybe I'm finally learning to listen."
He knelt beside the spiral, placing a folded leaf upon the stone. It wasn't a ritual offering but rather an act of remembrance. "I don't understand what this is," he confessed, his fingers brushing the spiral's surface, "but it feels like a promise."
"A vow?" Malhar inquired, trying to grasp the weight of his friend's words.
"Yes," Veeraj affirmed, "but not mine. Not yet."
As if stirred by their conversation, the wind shifted gently. From the mist, a black horse emerged, its presence silent yet commanding. It stood there, watching intently, a white flame-shaped mark banded across its brow. Veeraj froze, entranced.
"Do you see him?" he whispered, heart racing.
Malhar nodded slowly. "He's been following you for a while."
Veeraj's fingers danced across the spiral again, feeling a faint pulse beneath his touch. "If silence is ever broken, I will return…" he uttered, the words flowing naturally, as though they were always meant to be spoken.
"What did you say?" Malhar asked, stepping back, the gravity of the moment washing over him.
"I don't know," Veeraj replied, bewildered. "It just came to me."
From the fort wall, Meera observed quietly. Her eyes were keen, sharp with insight, and her smile soft but knowing. Though she didn't speak, her silence echoed with unspoken understanding.
That night, as the shadows deepened and the world settled into stillness, Veeraj sat with his journal, a sense of urgency pushing the ink across the page. He did not write a poem; he wrote a hum—a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā), or soul verse.
He was unaware, in that moment of creation, that the vow he had whispered was ancient—older than his name, older than the very foundations of the kingdom. It was a vow that had been murmured once before, on a ledge shrouded in mist, by a soul that had promised to return. The echoes of the past were calling, and Veeraj was destined to answer.