Morning broke wrong.
The sky wasn't blue—it sagged gray, like bruised skin. Aryan woke before the bells, throat dry, the mark on his palm throbbing in rhythm with his pulse.
From tomorrow, your training changes.
No explanation. No comfort. Just that.
He rose, legs stiff, and splashed river water on his face. Cold bit his skin, sharp enough to make him gasp. Around him, the gurukul stirred. Disciples shuffled toward the prayer hall, whispering, glancing sideways at him.
He kept his head down. Easier than meeting their eyes.
The Courtyard
Mahajan waited in the center courtyard, hands folded behind his back. Behind him stood three other teachers, faces carved from stone. And beside them—
Aryan's stomach dropped.
Seven disciples. Volunteers. Standing in a row with their chins high and shoulders squared. Vikram was there. Dev. Others whose names he barely remembered. Their eyes gleamed with something between challenge and curiosity.
"Aryan," Mahajan's voice cut through the morning haze. "Approach."
He obeyed, feet heavy on packed earth. Each step felt like walking toward a pit.
"The teachers have decided," Mahajan began, voice calm but final. "You will face trials. Not of strength alone, but of worthiness. Written knowledge. Strategic thinking. Combat. Spirit. Philosophy. Craft."
Aryan's fingers curled. His palm burned.
"These disciples"—Mahajan gestured to the seven—"have volunteered to walk beside you. They, too, will be measured."
Vikram's jaw tightened. Dev looked away.
Wait.
"This is your trial," one of the younger teachers spoke up, eyes sharp. "But fairness demands they share the burden. If you stumble, so will they."
The words landed like stones. The seven stiffened. Some glared at Aryan. Others stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him.
He wanted to say I didn't ask for this. He wanted to say Why me? But the words stuck in his throat, jagged and useless.
The Library Trial
"First," Mahajan said, "knowledge."
The teachers led them to the library—a cramped, shadowed hall smelling of old palm-leaf scrolls and dust thick enough to choke on. Shelves climbed the walls like skeletal ribs.
"You have until midday," one teacher announced. "Find the scroll of Apāṁ Napāt—the hidden one, not the common text. Return with its first verse memorized. All of you."
The door shut behind them. Silence pressed down.
For a breath, no one moved.
Then Vikram lunged toward the nearest shelf. The others scattered, pulling scrolls, scanning titles, muttering. Aryan stood frozen, his pulse loud in his ears.
Hidden scroll. Not the common one.
He glanced around. Rows upon rows of brittle manuscripts. Some labeled, most not. Dust swirled in weak shafts of light from narrow windows.
His chest tightened. How?
"Move, Scroll Brain," someone hissed. "Or you'll fail us all."
Aryan swallowed and forced his legs forward. He reached for a shelf—
Pain.
Sharp, searing, like needles driven into his skull. He gasped, stumbled back. The whispers surged, old voices clawing at the edges of his mind:
नासदासीन्नो सदासीत्तदानीं
Not again. Not now.
He pressed his palms to his temples, nails digging in. The library tilted. Voices layered—disciples muttering, ancient chants bleeding through, his heartbeat hammering louder, louder—
Then he saw it.
A faint shimmer. Not light, exactly. More like the air bending, folding in on itself. A shelf in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow. The scrolls there looked older, edges brown and curling.
Aryan's feet moved without thought. He crossed the room, ignoring the others. His fingers brushed a scroll—cold, wrong, like touching something that shouldn't exist in daylight.
He pulled it free.
The moment his skin made contact, the whispers stopped. The pain vanished. His vision cleared.
He unrolled it slowly. Sanskrit glowed faintly on the leaf, as if lit from within. The title read: Apāṁ Napāt—The Hidden Hymn.
His breath caught.
The Verse
He scanned the first lines:
अपां नपात् नियुत्वा रश्मिभिश्चतुर्भिः
Son of Waters, harnessed by four rays…
The words seared themselves into his memory. Not reading—knowing. Like they'd always been there, waiting beneath his skin.
Behind him, footsteps. Vikram appeared, eyes narrowed. "You found it."
Aryan nodded, throat tight.
Vikram stared at the scroll, then at Aryan. Something flickered in his gaze—resentment, maybe. Or fear. "How?"
"I don't know."
"You always say that."
The others gathered. Dev peered over Aryan's shoulder, lips moving as he memorized the verse. One by one, they repeated it aloud, voices overlapping, practicing until the syllables came smooth.
By the time the door opened, they were ready.
The Reckoning
Mahajan stood waiting, face unreadable. "Recite."
They spoke in unison, the verse pouring out—clean, precise. The teachers nodded. One marked something on a clay tablet.
"Pass," Mahajan said simply.
Relief washed over the group. Some exhaled. Others exchanged glances.
But Mahajan's eyes stayed on Aryan. Long. Searching.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "the trials continue."
The Herb Garden
After dismissal, Aryan retreated to the herb garden. His hands shook as he poured water, spilling more than the roots needed. The plants shimmered again, threads of light weaving between their leaves.
He blinked hard. Still there.
"You see them."
Aryan spun. A figure stood at the garden's edge—robes tattered, face half-shadowed. The old man from the forest. The one who'd spoken of the flame.
"Who—"
"You see the threads," the man repeated, stepping closer. His eyes were pale, sharp despite the ruin of his body. "The Tantu. The strings that bind all things."
Aryan's mouth went dry. "I don't understand."
"You will." The man glanced at Aryan's palm—the faint mark still visible. "The flame chose you. The trials will break you or forge you. There is no middle path."
"Why?" The word tore out of him. "Why me? I'm nothing. I can't even—"
"You think yourself weak." The old man's voice turned hard. "But weakness and incompleteness are not the same. You are scattered, boy. Fragmented. Until you gather the pieces, you will always feel this—" He tapped Aryan's chest. "This hollow."
Aryan flinched.
"The trials are not punishment," the man continued. "They are the first step. Learn what you can endure. Learn what you're willing to sacrifice."
Before Aryan could respond, the man turned and melted into the shadows between the huts, gone as if he'd never been.
The Night
Aryan lay on his mat, staring at the ceiling. Around him, the other disciples slept—some snoring, others shifting in dreams.
His palm ached. The mark pulsed faintly, crimson against his skin.
Fragmented.
The word echoed.
He turned it over, tasting its weight. His chest felt hollow, ribs rattling like an empty cage. His thoughts scattered the moment he tried to hold them. The whispers came and went, dragging pieces of him in directions he couldn't name.
What am I?
No answer. Just the dark, the distant chirp of crickets, and the slow burn of the mark on his hand.
Tomorrow, the trials would continue.
And Aryan didn't know if he feared them—or needed them.
The threads whisper. The fire watches. And in the dark, something ancient stirs, waiting for the boy to become whole.