The hut was plunged into a silence more profound than before, broken only by their ragged breaths. The scroll lay on the rough-hewn floor where the shadow-hawk had dissolved, a stark, physical anomaly in the wake of the impossible.
Neel let the water sphere in his hand dissipate, his face pale. "What in the name of the gods was that?"
Anal didn't answer. His heart hammered against his ribs, the newfound peace from his meditation shattered. He knelt, his movements cautious, and picked up the scroll. It was cold, unnaturally so, as if it had been stored in a tomb for centuries. The material was not parchment or paper, but something thin and leathery, dark as a moonless night.
He unrolled it. The message inside was not written in ink, but seemed to be etched into the material with a faint, phosphorescent light that pulsed with a slow, malevolent rhythm.
Fire Prince,
Your display at the temple was... illuminating. Agneya's failure has cleared the way for a more direct approach. You seek to understand your power? We shall provide the ultimate lesson.
We have taken something you have forgotten. A spark from your past, left to smolder in the dark. She waits at the Sun-Scorched Plains, where the earth bleeds fire. Come and claim her. Prove your strength.
Fail to appear, and we will snuff her out. Let the Keeper try to soothe these flames.
—The Ember Lord
Anal's blood ran cold, colder than the scroll in his hand. A spark from your past. The words echoed in the hollow chamber of his mind. He had no siblings. His mother was gone. His father... a memory shrouded in the smoke of war. Who could they mean?
And then, like a ghost stepping out of the mist, a face surfaced in his memory. A kind, smiling face with gentle eyes and hair the colour of autumn leaves. A face he hadn't thought of in years.
"Be brave, my little flame," she had said, her voice a soft melody in his childhood. "A great king is not born from ease."
Maitreyi. His old nurse. The woman who had sung him to sleep, who had wiped his tears, who had been more of a mother to him than the queen consumed by courtly duty. She had retired to a small village years ago, fading into the quiet background of his life. He had forgotten. He, the Crown Prince, in his self-absorbed pursuit of power and duty, had forgotten the woman who had given him his first lessons in kindness.
A wave of shame, hot and acidic, washed over him, followed by a fury so pure it made the scroll in his hand feel warm.
Neel was reading the message over his shoulder. "Anal? Who is 'she'? Who have they taken?"
Anal's voice was a low, dangerous growl, all traces of his earlier calm incinerated by this new threat. "Maitreyi. My nurse." He crushed the scroll in his fist, the phosphorescent message flickering angrily. "They didn't target a warrior or a politician. They targeted a helpless old woman who loved me."
He stood up, his body thrumming with a terrifying energy. The peaceful acceptance he had learned today was gone, replaced by the old, familiar inferno, but now it was focused, sharpened by a very personal, very human rage. They hadn't threatened his throne or his power. They had threatened his heart, a part of him he didn't even know was still vulnerable.
"We have to go. Now," Anal said, his tone leaving no room for debate. The Ashram, the lessons, the path to mastery—it all seemed like a distant, irrelevant dream.
"Anal, wait," Neel said, grabbing his arm. "This is exactly what they want! They're manipulating you. Using your emotions to pull you into another trap. The Sun-Scorched Plains are a wasteland, a natural oven. It's a perfect arena for them."
"I don't care!" Anal snarled, wrenching his arm free. The air around him shimmered with heat. "She is innocent. She doesn't deserve to be a pawn in this game because of me."
"And walking into their trap will get you both killed!" Neel shot back, his own frustration boiling over. "Use the mind you're so proud of! This is a strategic disaster!"
"THIS ISN'T A BATTLE SIMULATION!" Anal roared, the sound echoing in the small hut. The windows rattled. "This is a person's life! A life that matters to me! Or does your precious vow not cover the people I care about? Is your protection only for the 'Prize,' not for the man?"
The words hung in the air, a brutal challenge. Neel stared at him, stunned into silence by the raw, unvarnished pain in Anal's voice. This wasn't the stoic prince. This was a man, terrified for someone he loved.
Neel's shoulders slumped. The fight went out of him. He looked from Anal's desperate, furious face to the crushed scroll on the floor.
"Of course it does," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "My vow is to protect you. All of you. Even the parts that hurt." He took a deep breath, his decision made. "We go. But we do it smartly. We don't just run in blindly. We need a plan. We need to use every advantage we have, including whatever Mataji can tell us about that place."
Anal's rage subsided, replaced by a grim, cold determination. Neel was right. A blind charge would get Maitreyi killed. He gave a sharp, grateful nod.
They rushed out of the hut to find Mataji. They found her standing outside, looking up at the starry sky as if she had been expecting them.
"The shadow has spoken," she said, not turning to look at them. "The bond of love is a powerful tether, Prince Anal. It can be a source of great strength, or a leash to lead you to your doom. The choice is yours."
She finally turned, her eyes filled with a deep sorrow. "The Sun-Scorched Plains are a place of dead fire. The earth there remembers only ash. Your fire will be strong there, but so will your despair. They have chosen their battleground well."
"Will you help us?" Neel asked, his voice pleading.
Mataji was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "I will give you what little I can. A blessing for the journey. And a warning." Her gaze was piercing. "The Ember Lord is not a title, Prince Anal. It is a name. And he is someone you know."
She reached into the folds of her simple robe and pulled out a small, worn-out wooden toy—a clumsily carved horse, its paint faded with age. A toy Anal hadn't seen since he was five years old. A toy only one other person had ever owned.
"He was your first friend," Mataji whispered, her words dropping like stones into the silent night. "The boy who played with you in the royal gardens. The one you called brother. His name was Rohan."