The monsoon had finally broken over the merged plains in earnest by mid-July 2036. Rain fell in steady, silver sheets, turning the Eternal Bridge's orchard into a glistening emerald cathedral. Mango trees bowed under the weight of their fruit and water, leaves drumming a rhythmic tattoo that echoed both Punjab's thundering dhol and Elandria's gentle leyline hum. The air smelled of wet earth, ripe sweetness, and the clean ozone of magic meeting rain. Puddles reflected twin skies—Kot Addu's bruised purple clouds blending seamlessly with Elandria's softer, multi-hued dawn.
Zara Thorne-Fox, nine years old and a living spark of russet-tailed chaos, had declared today "Mango Prophecy Day." She had spent the previous week whispering to the orchard trees, convinced they were hiding secrets. Her illusion magic—now strong enough to fool adults for short bursts—had conjured fake mango rains to test reactions. Today, she was determined to find "the special one."
From Zara's perspective: "Mangoes talk. Everyone thinks it's silly, but I hear them. Whispering like Nani's old cassettes. Today I find the prophecy mango—the one Abba says the dunes gave him visions about. It'll be golden, glowing, and it'll tell us how to fix the rifts forever. Easy!"
She darted through the rain-soaked rows, tail swishing, illusion patterns flickering across her skin like living henna—camouflage against curious siblings. Ammar was busy "patrolling" the portal arch (mostly splashing in puddles), Liyana practiced frosting raindrops mid-fall into tiny ice sculptures, and the younger ones were under Nani's watchful eye in the veranda, too little for "serious" quests.
Zara reached the oldest tree—the one Ahmed's father had planted when he was born, now massive and intertwined with Elandrian starbloom vines. Its trunk bore faint rune-like scars from the bridge's original anchoring. She pressed her ear to the bark.
"Come on… talk to me."
A soft hum answered—not wind, not rain, but something deeper. The tree's leaves rustled in Saraiki:
"Sun yar purani pid wo
Dil da dard sunawan kise nu…"
(Listen to the old wound of the beloved
To whom shall I tell the pain of my heart…)
Zara's eyes widened. "Farid? You're singing Farid?"
The ground beneath her shimmered. A small rift—no larger than a doorway—opened in the roots, golden light spilling out like liquid mango pulp. Without hesitation (because Zara never hesitated), she jumped through.
She landed in soft, warm sand—not the Whispering Dunes' harsh grit, but something gentler, like powdered gold. The sky above was a perfect Punjab blue, but dotted with Elandrian twin moons even in daylight. Ruins rose around her—sandstone pillars carved with swirling ajrak patterns, peacock motifs from Punjabi tales, river waves like the Indus, and desert thorns from Saraiki legends. Winds whispered fragments of folklore: Sassi's cries across Kohyari peaks, Heer's defiant flute, Dulla Bhatti's rebel roars, Sohni's river swim, Mirza's arrow-defying ride.
Zara's tail flicked nervously. "Okay… not the orchard anymore. But this place feels like Nani's stories. Adventure level: expert."
She explored cautiously. The ruins formed a circular sanctum, central dais holding a single, impossibly perfect mango—golden, larger than her head, glowing with inner light. Runes circled its base, etched in Saraiki and ancient High Human script.
Zara reached out. "Hello, prophecy mango."
The fruit pulsed. Visions bloomed in her mind—not chaotic like Abba's, but gentle, story-like.
First: ancient Saraiki women weaving ajrak under desert stars, singing Farid's kafis to calm sandstorms. Their shawls became bridges of light.
Then: Punjabi maidens dancing Lohri fires, Dulla Bhatti's sword flashing as he protected them—blades turning to mango branches that fed the poor.
Sassi crossing mountains, each step a verse; Heer defying clans with flute and heart; Sohni swimming rivers with love's strength.
All converging on one image: a bridge of mango trees spanning worlds, children of every race playing beneath, rifts healing like old wounds under poetry's touch.
The mango spoke—soft, feminine, layered voices of folklore females:
"We are the ones who waited. Sassi's endurance, Heer's rebellion, Pari's wishes, Churel's redemption, Sohni's flow. Our essences lingered in tales, seeking a unifier. Your father opened the bridge; you children will hold it. Bear our legacy—new children to weave the final threads."
Zara blinked. "You want me to… have a mango baby? Gross!"
Laughter like wind chimes. "Not you, little fox. Your father. We manifest through the Veil's chaos—wives of legend, bearing hybrids of story and blood."
The mango split gently—revealing not pulp, but five shimmering seeds, each pulsing with a different light.
"Plant us. We will grow—wives of myth, mothers of unity."
Zara pocketed the seeds. "Abba is gonna freak. But cool freak."
She stepped back through the rift—emerging under the old tree, soaked, clutching glowing seeds.
Ahmed found her instantly—chaos affinity sensing the disturbance.
"Zara! What happened?"
She held up the seeds. "Prophecy mango. Talking. Wants more moms. For unity babies."
Ahmed stared. "More… wives?"
From the veranda, his mother called: "Beta! Kya hua? Mango chor phir se?" (Son! What happened? Mango thief again?)
The family gathered. Ahmed explained—visions, voices, seeds.
His wives listened: Vixen sly, "More sisters? Room for tricks." Kira fierce, "Pack grows stronger." Sylara wise, "Chaos births balance." Lirael precise, "Legends strengthen the weave." Others nodded—unity expanding.
Ahmed performed a chaos ritual: circle drawn in orchard mud, seeds planted under rain, reciting fused poetry—Farid's longing, Bulleh's wit, Bhitai's journey, Shakir's resilience, Waris's rebellion.
Seeds sprouted instantly—mythical females manifesting: Sassi Desertborn (enduring, sand-skinned), Heer Passionfire (flame-haired flutist), Pari Wingwhisper (fairy-winged), Churel Heartbloom (redeemed spirit), Sohni Riverflow (water-veiled nymph).
Each bowed. "We come to bear your children—for the final weave."
Ahmed, with existing wives' blessing (each union discussed openly, celebrated with festivals), accepted in a ritual under rain and moons—reciting kafis, sealing bonds.
New children conceived magically (fantasy timeline): due in months—Sassara (from Sassi), Heeran (from Heer), Parveen (from Pari), Churvi (from Churel), Sohnia (from Sohni).
Status screens flashed (system update for new generation):
Name: Ammar Thorne-Khan
Race: Chaos Wolf-Hybrid
Level: 7
Class: Pack Guardian
Stats: Str 22, Agi 25, Int 18, End 28, Luck 15, Chaos 18
Skills: Howl Tempest, Scale Aegis, Verse Call
Name: Zara Thorne-Fox
Race: Chaos Fox-Hybrid
Level: 6
Class: Illusion Trickster
Stats: Str 15, Agi 30, Int 26, End 18, Luck 22, Chaos 20
Skills: Dream Veil, Tail Mirage, Legend Trick
Name: Liyana Thorne-Frost
Race: Chaos Dragon-Hybrid
Level: 5
Class: Frost Sage
Stats: Str 18, Agi 20, Int 24, End 22, Luck 16, Chaos 16
Skills: Breath Glacier, Wing Chill, Kafi Freeze
(Younger children updated similarly—Elara Level 3 Vine Weaver, etc.)
Riftborn attacked mid-ritual—shadows of folklore twisted (dark Sassi, vengeful Heer). Family defended: new wives' powers (Sassi endurance shields, Heer flute disorients, Pari wish-binds, Churel bloom-lights, Sohni flow-washes) fusing with others.
From children's views: Ammar: "Pack bigger—stronger!" Zara: "New moms = new tricks!" Liyana: "Love fixes everything."
Rift sealed, prophecy hint: "Children of legend will mend the final tear."