Some paths shine in sunlight.
Others glow only in shadow.
But both lead forward.
---
🕊️ Meera — First Light
The sky blushed gold as Meera's carriage crested the final hill.
And there it was—
Amaravati, City of Talents.
It rose like a dream carved in marble and mist.
White towers pierced the clouds.
Bridges floated above rivers that shimmered with sky-glass.
Elemental temples burned, shimmered, or hummed with the power of their Affinities.
At the city's heart stood the Sanctum of the Source,
where the greatest Talents in history had once walked.
Meera leaned forward, eyes wide, heart racing.
> "I'm really here," she breathed.
Behind her, the priest of Sharanya bowed low.
> "You are Bhargavi reborn, Meera. This city was made for children like you."
She wasn't so sure.
---
🏛️ The Arrival
The Hall of Names was the first stop.
A vast chamber of floating glyphs and golden light.
Every name etched in the air belonged to someone remembered — someone legendary.
And now, among them, floated:
> Meera — Shantivaani
Bhargavi Line — Source-Blessed
Other students stared.
Some bowed.
Others whispered behind their sleeves.
> "That's her. The divine girl from the village."
"How can a Bhargavi rise from dust?"
"She doesn't look like a chosen one."
Meera smiled as best she could.
She answered questions with grace.
But that night, alone in a chamber of silk and silence,
she placed a hand on her chest.
> "Why do I feel farther from home,"
"when I'm supposed to be closer to the Source?"
---
🧘♀️ Training Days
Her voice could still a wild beast.
Close wounds with sound.
Even bring peace to those caught in grief or fury.
The Masters watched in awe.
They studied her as though she were not a student—but a symbol.
> "The first true Bhargavi in five centuries…"
"The harmony in her tone isn't learned. It's inherited."
But their reverence made her feel smaller, not greater.
They praised her. Protected her.
Yet kept her at a distance — as if she were sacred but fragile.
And in the quiet between lessons,
beneath ceilings carved with stars,
she thought not of glory...
…but of stone benches, banyan roots,
chalk on skin and the stillness of a boy watching the wind.
---
🌑 Shiva — In the Shadows
Back in Sharanya, no one asked,
> "Where's Shiva?"
Not anymore.
Whispers followed him now — sharp and hushed.
> "F-Rank."
"The pool couldn't read him."
"No Talent. No bloodline. A mistake, maybe."
Children were pulled away when he walked near.
Vendors looked through him.
But Shiva didn't break.
He swept temple floors.
He listened to birdsong.
He sat beneath the chandrapushpa tree,
watching the leaves move in silence.
---
🌌 One Night
The wind shifted.
The river stilled.
Even the insects fell quiet.
Shiva opened his eyes.
The world was holding its breath.
Then — from the bark of the old chandrapushpa — something stepped forward.
A figure, wrapped in dusk and ash.
Not quite man. Not quite spirit.
Its shape flickered like smoke.
> "You are not Talentless," it said.
Shiva rose to his feet, calm and silent.
> "Then what am I?"
The figure's eyes glowed dimly.
Not with fire — but with knowing.
> "You are unmeasured.
Unopened.
Unseen — for now."
> "You are Nirvana. Not power used — but power ceased.
A mirror the world avoids.
A silence that breaks empires."
Shiva said nothing.
But in his stillness, something deep within him… shifted.
---
🌠 Across the Distance
Far away, in Amaravati,
Meera stood by her high window, staring into the stars.
> "You're not gone," she whispered.
"I can still feel you."
And in Sharanya, beneath a glowing tree,
Shiva closed his eyes and let the wind carry his breath.
No words were spoken.
But across the miles,
something ancient stirred.