The sun-baked city of Anant-Khaani slowly disappeared behind them, the golden dunes melting into bronze as dusk descended. The sixth sigil pulsed faintly beneath Veer's skin like a heartbeat forged in fire. The Trial of Thirst had left scars not on his body—but on his spirit. Yet, something within him had changed. His gait was slower now, more deliberate. Each step wasn't just movement—it was purpose made flesh.
Ishaya rode beside him on a camel, her face half-covered in flowing silk. The breeze tossed strands of her hair across her eyes, but her gaze was fixed on him.
"You didn't speak a word for the past two hours," she said softly. "Are you still in the desert?"
Veer turned, meeting her gaze. "No. But it hasn't left me."
She nodded, understanding more than he said.
Their caravan of four Varuni warriors, now loyal to Veer, marched in silence. These were not guards—they were witnesses. Every tribe that joined him sent emissaries not just to serve, but to observe, to carry word back to their people. Veer wasn't just building an alliance—he was building a legend.
By the time they reached the edge of the dunes, the sky was a blanket of stars. A single tree, gnarled and half-dead, stood like a sentinel at the border between desert and valley. Beneath it, an old man sat cross-legged beside a flickering lamp. He wore white robes and had a beard like flowing silver.
As they approached, he didn't move. Didn't blink.
He simply said, "So you've arrived, child of flame."
Veer narrowed his eyes. "Do I know you?"
The man smiled. "You once did. Long ago. In another life."
Veer frowned. Ishaya stepped forward. "Is this another test?"
"No," the man said. "This is a meeting that was always meant to happen. Sit, boy. Your path forks here."
Veer hesitated only a second before sitting before the man, crossing his legs, the coolness of the ground surprising after days of fire and sand.
The man leaned forward, eyes glinting. "You carry the weight of six tribes. You march toward a throne not yet carved. But tell me… what will you do when your sword must strike down someone you love?"
Silence fell like a heavy shroud.
Veer's jaw tightened. "I'll find another way."
The old man chuckled. "There is always another way—until there isn't."
His hand reached into his robes and produced a scroll wrapped in black silk.
"This," he said, placing it before Veer, "is a prophecy written in blood, buried for centuries beneath the old Shiva temples. It tells of a king born from ashes… a child who would unite the tribes and awaken the ancient kingdom of Mahatva. But it also speaks of betrayal. Of a sword never drawn… because it was aimed at the wrong heart."
Veer slowly unraveled the scroll. The script was ancient, its ink red and metallic. As his eyes moved across the symbols, something stirred in his chest—a deep, primal recognition, as if the words were etched into his soul.
One line stood out:
> "And the king shall be asked to choose: his blood… or his people."
Veer looked up. "What does it mean?"
The old man's eyes softened. "It means the crown you seek does not come without sacrifice. Not all enemies will wear masks. Some will wear memories."
Before Veer could speak, the man rose slowly, as if he weighed the world. "This is my gift and my warning. Ahead lies a village untouched by time—Sharvapur. It is the birthplace of the last crowned king. And it holds something you must see."
With that, the man walked into the desert, his lamp flickering until it vanished into the night.
Sharvapur sat in a hidden valley, nestled between cliffs and rivers. It was a quiet place, forgotten by maps but not by the wind. As Veer's party entered, the people stared not with suspicion—but with recognition.
Old women whispered. Children pointed. And an elder stepped forward, cane in hand, and bowed.
"We knew you'd come."
Veer dismounted. "How?"
The man smiled. "Your name has been whispered by the trees for generations. The winds told us."
They were led through narrow alleys into a shrine carved into a mountain wall. It wasn't grand, but it radiated peace. Inside, a statue of Lord Shiva sat in meditation, his third eye slightly open. And before it—an empty pedestal.
The elder spoke. "This was once the resting place of the Shard-Blade—the sword of Mahatva's last king. Forged in silence. Tempered in prayer. It was said to cut not flesh, but fate."
Veer stepped closer, heart thudding. "Where is it now?"
The elder hesitated, then turned and opened a hidden compartment behind the shrine. From the shadows, he pulled a wrapped bundle.
"Only the one chosen by both man and god may lift it."
He offered it.
Veer took the bundle with reverence, unwrapping it slowly.
Inside was a blade unlike any he'd seen.
Slim. Curved. Its surface was black like obsidian, but shimmered with blue light when caught in the fire. The hilt bore no jewels—just a single symbol etched deep into the grip.
The Trishul.
Veer reached out.
The moment his fingers touched it, a flash of light burst around him.
> [Legendary Item Acquired: Shard-Blade of Mahatva]
[Bound to Bearer: Veer]
[Passive Ability: Truthstrike – Reveals lies spoken within 10 meters when unsheathed.]
[Special Skill: Fate Severance – Can negate one destined event per month, but at a karmic cost.]
His knees almost buckled.
The power was immense—not physical, but spiritual. As if the sword hummed with centuries of prayer and purpose.
Ishaya stared in awe. "That sword… it feels alive."
Veer turned to the elder. "Why give this to me?"
"Because you are the first to walk the path without drawing blood for yourself. The sword was never meant to kill. It was meant to protect truth… and sever illusions."
Veer looked down at the blade, then sheathed it gently.
"I'll carry it," he said. "But only when needed."
Outside, the bells of the shrine began to ring—though no hand had touched them.
A sign.
A beginning.
Or an end.
Veer looked toward the sky, and the stars seemed to burn brighter.
He was no longer just gathering tribes.
He was awakening a kingdom.
And somewhere, destiny shivered.