The village of Gyaansinghpur lay quiet beneath a swollen sky, the distant rumble of thunder promising rain. Ravi, Kiran, and Meera returned from the mountain cave with heavy steps and heavier hearts. The air seemed thinner here, as if the world was holding its breath.
Ravi's fingers brushed the edge of the cracked blade he now carried — a forgotten relic found inside the cave, dull but still humming faintly with the pulse of the Void Palm.
"We shouldn't have gone," Meera whispered, eyes darting toward the horizon where black smoke curled like a warning.
Kiran clenched his fists. "They're coming. The warlords. The ones who want the Devaangs."
Ravi's mind replayed the assassin's face, frozen in terror when his blade shattered. This was no ordinary power, and those who sought it wouldn't stop.
Later that night, as rain began to drum against the wooden rooftops, Ravi sat by the hearth with Meera. Her gentle hands pressed soothing balm to his bruised wrist.
"You don't have to carry this alone," she said softly. "We'll stand with you."
He looked into her eyes — steady and fierce — and felt a flicker of hope.
Kiran, pacing near the door, spoke without turning. "You'll need more than hope. The warlords have armies. And some of their Devaangs bend reality itself."
Ravi stood abruptly. "Then we fight. But not for power or revenge. For those who can't."
The village elder's horns blared suddenly from the central tower — a call to arms. Flames flickered in the distance. A warlord's scouts.
Ravi grabbed Kiran's shoulder. "This is only the beginning."
Meera hurried after him, determination shining through fear.
Together, they stepped into the storm — a trio bound by blood, power, and a shared destiny.