The sky over Etiopa did not just rain; it screamed. Lightning fractured the charcoal clouds, illuminating the jagged sandstone walls of the barracks for split seconds at a time. Through the deluge, a shadow moved—a man draped in heavy, sodden black cloth. He moved with a predatory grace that suggested he knew exactly where the guards' vision failed in the mud.
In his arms, a bundle of silk and wool shivered. The baby's cry was thin, easily swallowed by the thunder, but the man held the child with a mechanical coldness. He reached the perimeter of the army camp, slipped past a sleeping sentry, and placed the bundle inside the dry hollow of an equipment wagon.
Without a prayer, a look back, or a single footprint left in the shifting silt, he was gone. The "Second Capital" of Tantia remained oblivious to the spark that had just been dropped into its heart.
The Market of Etiopa: Years Later
The storm of that night was a distant memory, replaced by a sun so fierce it felt like a physical weight on the shoulders. It was the height of the Gupta Empire, and the market was a riot of color and sweat.
The air was thick with the scent of parched earth, roasting chickpeas, and the metallic tang of bronze being hammered in nearby stalls. Men moved through the crowds in simple dhotis of fine white cotton, while the wealthier merchants flaunted uttariyas (shawls) embroidered with gold thread that glinted painfully in the midday glare.
Amala wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. Her skin, the deep, rich brown of river silt, shone under the sun. She shifted the weight of the toddler on her hip—the boy was heavy, his eyes wide and curious as he reached for a dangling string of lapis lazuli beads at a nearby stall.
"Just the lentils and the salt, Master Vanik," Amala said, her voice strained but polite.
The shopkeeper, a man whose belly strained against his silk waistband, piled the dried goods into a woven leaf wrap. His stall was a treasure trove of the empire's reach: mounds of turmeric, dried ginger from the south, and polished sandalwood ornaments.
"Two copper karshapanas," the merchant grunted, wiping his neck with a rag.
Amala reached into the folds of her faded sari, her fingers searching for the small hemp pouch she kept tucked away. Her heart skipped. She felt the bottom of the pouch—it was flat. The realization hit her like a splash of ice water: the oil she had bought for their lamp this morning had drained the last of her coins. She had counted them three times, but in the exhaustion of raising a child alone, the math had simply slipped away.
"I... I seem to have..." she stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson.
The merchant's eyes narrowed. The bustling noise of the market—the shouting of fruit sellers, the lowing of oxen, the clatter of chariot wheels—seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of her own pulse.
"No money?" The shopkeeper's voice rose, drawing the attention of a passing soldier in scaled leather armor. "You waste my time in this heat, woman? Look at the line behind you! If you can't afford to eat, don't stand where the buyers shop."
Amala clutched the baby tighter, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling like a spotlight on her poverty.
12 years later.
Twelve years had passed, and the sun-drenched streets of Etiopa had only grown louder. High above the chaos of the lower market, the air was thinner, smelling of dry dust and the faint, metallic tang of the bronze-smiths' hammers echoing from below.
Alok didn't use the stairs; stairs were for people with coins in their pockets and nowhere to be. Instead, he gripped a coarse, sun-bleached rope that dangled from a merchant's balcony. He hauled himself up, his muscles tensing with a practiced fluid motion. Beneath his hanging sandals, the world was a blur of activity: a shopkeeper was loudly haggling over a set of burnished copper urns that caught the midday light like fallen stars, while a caravan of pack-mules brayed in the distance.
The rope groaned, but Alok's weight was light and his movements sure. He reached the second-story ledge—a structure of thick, dried clay and mountain sand that felt warm against his palms—and vaulted over the railing with the grace of a street-cat.
Inside the shaded room, a boy lay sprawled across a lumpy sack of grain, snoring softly. This was Arya. He looked entirely too peaceful for the trouble Alok had planned.
Without a word, Alok grabbed the edge of the sack and hauled it toward the open window. Arya's head lolled back, his eyes snapping open in a flash of white-gold panic as the floor vanished beneath him.
"Up, sleeper," Alok grinned, his voice a low, melodic rasp.
Before Arya could even let out a yell, Alok scooped him up with one arm—a feat of strength that seemed impossible for his lean frame—and launched them both across the narrow alleyway. They landed on the neighboring terrace with a heavy thud of sandals on baked earth.
"Alok!" Arya gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared down at the dizzying drop they had just defied. "By the gods, aren't we supposed to be there in the evening? Why are we doing this now?"
Alok didn't slow down. He was already checking the horizon, his eyes fixed on a distant plume of smoke. "You know the Old Man, Arya. He lives to avoid us. If we wait until the sun sets, his doors will be barred and his secrets locked away."
"But where is Priya?" Arya asked, scrambling to keep up as they sprinted across the interconnected roofs.
"Priya is already on her way to see Steve," Alok replied, leaping over a chimney stack.
"Steve? That immigrant boy?" Arya frowned. It was a strange name for this city, belonging to the outsiders who had crossed the Great Sea to settle in Etiopa. Even in a Golden Age, the city was a maze of invisible lines; the locals looked at the immigrants with a mix of curiosity and coldness, though the two groups often shared the same dusty air of the lower districts.
"Exactly," Alok said, his pace quickening. "He's got eyes on the barracks. If the soldiers move, he'll know."
They dropped from the final roof, hitting the cobblestones in a crouch. Ahead of them stood a massive house, built of heavy timber and a grey, cement-like stone that looked older than the capital itself. A thick, dark grey smoke billowed from its wide chimney, swirling into the orange haze of the afternoon sky.
The Old Man was home.