The night was unnaturally still.
Nashik—a city of rivers and forgotten ruins—was rarely silent. Temple bells usually echoed through its streets. Scooters climbed sloped roads. Old songs drifted from balconies like memories refusing to fade.
Tonight, everything held its breath.
Inside a modest row house tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, a boy twisted in his sleep. A ceiling fan hummed above him. A glass of water shimmered on the windowsill. The house was neat—clean floors, folded clothes, a bookshelf stacked in uneven layers.
The boy's mattress rested beside the window.
A thin pillow.
A worn quilt.
His name was Avdhoot Autade.
Eleven years old. Tangled black-brown hair. Sharp brown eyes—squeezed shut now, trapped inside a dream.
A red sky.
Someone screamed his name.
A figure cloaked in black flame reached for him—burning, clawed hands stretching through smoke and shadow.
The air reeked of ash and blood.
And just before the fire touched him—
"GASP."
Avdhoot jolted upright, clutching his chest.
No smoke. No screams.
Only the frantic pounding of his heart and the steady whir of the fan above.
Light footsteps approached from the next room.
"Avdhoot?" came a warm voice.
A woman stepped inside, sari half-wrapped, hair tied into a loose bun. Her eyes were gentle, worried. Sonal—his aunt. The calm center of the house. The one who always woke before the world did.
"Another nightmare?" she asked, kneeling beside him.
Avdhoot nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It felt… worse this time."
Sonal pressed a cool hand to his cheek.
"It's okay," she said softly. "It's over now."
Avdhoot stared toward the window.
"Is it?"
From the kitchen came a deeper voice.
"Sonal? He awake?"
Sarth. Her husband. A man of few words and watchful eyes. His presence always settled a room—or sharpened it.
He stepped inside, arms crossed, gaze steady. Lines etched his face like old scars—silent ones.
"It's time," Sarth said quietly. "He needs to know."
Sonal rose.
"I'll make the tea."
As she moved away, Avdhoot looked up at Sarth.
"Know what?"
Sarth sat beside him.
"No questions," he said. "Just listen."
Avdhoot nodded.
"Your name—Autade—once meant something," Sarth began. "An ancient bloodline. Etched into magic, not history books."
Avdhoot blinked.
"Like… real magic?"
Sarth nodded.
"Not tricks. Not illusions. Magic that bends the world. That defends. That destroys."
Avdhoot swallowed.
"Were my parents…?"
Sarth's jaw tightened.
"Your mother, Lavanya, was a battle sorceress. Fireborn. Relentless. Your father preferred the shadows. Quiet. Precise. Both were respected."
Avdhoot sat straighter.
"Then what happened?"
"They were hunted," Sarth said. "Killed. During a raid by a group known as the Order of Ashen Thorns."
The name alone sent a chill through Avdhoot.
"Who are they?"
"A cult. They believe magic belongs only to bloodlines they deem 'pure.' Anyone outside that order is pollution."
Sarth's eyes hardened.
"You were born of two different heritages. You are everything they fear."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope. Glyphs shimmered across its surface, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"This arrived today," he said. "It has your name."
Avdhoot accepted it carefully. The wax seal burned beneath his thumb—not with heat, but recognition.
"It's from where your parents trained," Sarth continued. "A place that doesn't invite just anyone."
The name glowed across the parchment:
Sankathya Mahavidyalaya of Acharan Vidya
Avdhoot hesitated.
"But… I can't do magic. My body feels like it's fighting something inside me."
Sarth nodded slowly.
"Your mana is fractured. That much is true."
Then, softer:
"But sometimes, the cracks are where the light gets in."
He gestured to the seal.
"Read."
Avdhoot broke it. The letter unfurled, ink shifting as if alive.
Date: 8th June, 2013
Term Begins: 9th July, 2013
To Avdhoot Autade, Heir of the Lost Flame,
You are hereby granted provisional admission into Sankathya Mahavidyalaya of Acharan Vidya.
Though your mana signature is fractured, your lineage, spiritual resilience, and survival beyond expectation mark you as a viable candidate.
This letter contains your personal Vartalok Rune-Sigil—an ancient bridge-point between realms.
To activate: Place your hand upon the glyph below and speak your true name aloud. The Vartalok Path will respond. Your bridge shall reflect your soul. Walk it without hesitation. If your heart wavers, the path may collapse.
Arrival will be registered. Training begins one month from receipt. You are expected to prepare.
Magic owes you nothing. You must earn your place.
— Administrator Irawen Solas
Division of Admissions & Trials
Avdhoot looked up, breath uneven.
"It says I have one month."
"You will prepare," Sarth said. "Not to win. Not to impress. Just to survive your first day."
Avdhoot squinted.
"You talk like you've been there."
Sarth's expression didn't change.
"Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"One more thing. Listen carefully."
Avdhoot held his breath.
"The Academy teaches magic," Sarth said. "But it also watches. There are forces—people, entities, powers—who observe students like you. Students with… unusual gifts."
"Why?"
"Some to protect. Some to control."
A pause.
"Some to use."
A chill crawled down Avdhoot's spine.
"How do I know who to trust?"
"You don't," Sarth replied. "Not at first."
He placed a firm hand on Avdhoot's shoulder.
"Watch. Listen. Trust slowly. And if something feels wrong—it probably is."
Sonal returned with tea, her presence easing the room. But Avdhoot noticed the look she shared with Sarth—worried. Knowing.
"Be careful who you trust at the Academy," Sarth said quietly. "Even those who seem like friends."
Avdhoot hesitated.
"Can you do magic?"
Sarth chuckled once—dry and hollow.
"Some truths are earned, not given."
Sonal set the cups down. Her eyes lingered on the glowing letter.
"I'll help you pack tomorrow," she said softly. "Clothes. Snacks. Socks. You'll forget everything but the socks."
Avdhoot smiled faintly.
"Thank you… Aai."
Sonal froze.
Then she nodded, hands trembling slightly around the tray.
[End of Chapter 1]