Evening crept slowly over the hills, painting the sky in blood and amber. The forest near the healer's hut was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that whispered danger.
Aarvian sat near the banyan tree, his body still weak but his senses sharper than they had been that morning. The world felt… alive again. Every rustle of leaves, every shift of the wind seemed to hum with energy he couldn't explain.
Inside the small hut, Saanviya hummed softly as she ground herbs. The scent of sandalwood and neem filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of fire. Her voice was calm, but her eyes—when they turned toward the window—were cautious.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Aarvian asked, his tone low.
Saanviya hesitated, then nodded. "The wind carries wrongness tonight. I've seen storms, sickness, even death... but this—this feels older."
Aarvian stood slowly, the ache in his limbs replaced by an uneasy focus. "Stay inside."
Before she could reply, a sound came from the trees—a branch snapping, followed by the shuffle of feet. More than one.
Five figures emerged from the mist, their faces hidden behind cloth masks, their weapons crude but steady. Bandits, or perhaps something worse.
"We've been watching," the leader sneered. "The healer's herbs fetch good coin—and the man she's tending... looks worth a ransom."
Aarvian's eyes darkened. "You've chosen the wrong night."
He stepped forward, the air around him shifting. The bandits laughed, but it faltered when the wind changed—cold and heavy, as though the earth itself exhaled. The leader's torch flickered, then died.
In that heartbeat of darkness, Aarvian moved. His body remembered what his mind had forgotten. His strike was silent, precise—one motion, and the first man dropped.
The others attacked wildly, but their blades bent against him as if unseen hands redirected them. His instincts—divine, ancient—guided him like second nature.
Then he froze.
The fallen man twitched, his body convulsing unnaturally. His veins turned black, his eyes rolled white, and from his mouth came a voice that did not belong to any mortal tongue.
"The Fallen God awakens…"
Saanviya gasped from the doorway. The other bandits dropped their weapons, terrified, as a dark mist began to rise from their comrade's corpse.
Aarvian's eyes widened. The mist formed a shape—vague, serpentine, and alive. Its presence was suffocating, ancient, familiar.
"We remember you," the shadow hissed. "We watched you burn."
Rage flared in Aarvian's chest, raw and instinctive. His hand lifted unconsciously, and golden light burst from his palm. The shadow shrieked, twisting, retreating into the forest like smoke fleeing flame.
When the silence returned, all that remained were trembling mortals and the echo of that voice fading into the night.
Saanviya rushed to him. "What was that thing?"
Aarvian didn't answer. His pulse thundered. Somewhere deep within, something ancient stirred, whispering in a language older than the stars.
They know I've returned.
He looked toward the dark horizon, where the forests stretched endlessly eastward. The same direction Saanviya had warned him about.
The past was no longer forgotten.It was hunting him.
"Even the shadows remember the light that once burned them."