Prologue: The Night of Shadows
Thirteen years before history remembered his name, a child was born beneath a cursed sky.
The city of Indhravam, capital of the great kingdom of Barath, slept uneasily beneath a shroud of thunder. Clouds blotted out the stars. The moon vanished behind a black eclipse—the sign of Shani, bearer of fate and suffering. Not a dog barked. Not a bell rang. It was as if the heavens themselves held their breath.
Inside the palace, the cries of labor echoed through the silver-carved halls of the queen's chamber. Midwives moved like ghosts, their chants trembling on their tongues. A single oil lamp flickered. The air smelled of sweat, rosewater, and dread.
The queen's scream peaked—and then fell into silence.
A child was born. His eyes opened before his first breath. And when that breath came, it was not with a cry—but a whisper. A sound no one could name, a hush that made even the bravest among them step back.
The palace astrologers were summoned at once, their faces half-hidden behind scrolls and fear. They whispered, argued, re-read the stars by the trembling light.
Born on the night of the eclipse. In the shadow of Shani. Under the nakshatra of war.
They turned to the Maharaja, the father of the child—King Dharmadeva of Barath, ruler of lands that stretched from the coast of Sindhu to the gates of Tamradesh.
One of the astrologers fell to his knees.
"This child... carries a storm within him," he whispered. "If he is raised within these walls, Barath will fall by his hand—or rise by it. There is no middle path."
The king said nothing. He looked at the boy, cradled in the queen's arms, and saw the depth of the child's eyes—too deep, too silent.
A prince born in shadow. A flame hidden in cloth.
He remembered the words of the old sage: "The crown shall bear two sons. One shall carry the blood. The other... the blade."
The door opened silently behind him. A tall man entered, wrapped in the midnight-blue robes of a warrior long retired. His face bore no ornament—only scars and the calm of a soldier who had buried too many brothers.
"Senapati Varundhara," the king said. "You know why you are here."
The general bowed low. "To protect your son."
"No," the king replied, voice heavy. "To save him—from this palace. From this court. From the curse that follows my blood."
The queen gasped. "You would take my child?"
Dharmadeva turned to her, eyes wet but unblinking. "I would lose him now... so that he may one day return. And reclaim what this kingdom has forgotten—dharma."
No trumpets sounded that night. No scrolls announced the birth of a second prince.
In secret, the boy was taken from his cradle. Wrapped in white wool and a thread of sacred rudraksha. His name was never spoken aloud. Only carved in silence upon a copper amulet around his neck.
Before dawn, Senapati Varundhara rode out from Indhravam with the child wrapped to his chest. No guards. No convoy. Only prayers and the promise of blood.
Behind him, the palace of Barath resumed its morning rituals—bells rang, servants swept, ministers schemed.
And none knew that the kingdom had birthed its shadow.
He would grow where no name followed him.
He would rise where no throne could reach him.
One day, he would return—not as a prince. Not as a servant of the court.
But as judgment.