The wind carried the scent of firewood, sweat, and sorrow across the valley of Thenralagam. On the broken steps behind the eastern kitchens of the Aathirai Clan Hall, a boy crouched like an animal—too thin for his age, too sharp in the eyes to be called harmless.
His name was Velan.
He wasn't supposed to be there. Servants weren't allowed near the main estate at this hour—not when the clan elites were training in the courtyard with their flame-drenched swords and chants loud enough to shake the mountain roots.
But Velan was hungry. Again.
He had learned how to sneak into the trash pits unnoticed, how to pick through discarded rice clumps or half-burnt meat bones before the crows claimed them. Every movement he made was silent, refined from a thousand failed attempts. His stomach growled like a beast beneath his ribs.
"Thief," hissed a voice behind him.
Velan didn't flinch. He didn't need to look. He already knew who it was.
Thiruvadi, the young heir of the Aathirai Clan. The golden son. Everything Velan wasn't.
Velan stood slowly, his back straightening despite the instinct to curl and hide. "Not a thief. It was thrown away."
"You're a born servant. Born to eat dust, not scraps." Thiruvadi stepped closer, a blazing practice-blade humming in his hand. Not real fire, but enough to scorch skin. "Touch that again, and I'll burn your hands clean."
Velan stared at him, empty eyes meeting arrogance. "Then I'll eat with my mouth."
The blade flashed. Velan didn't move, not because he was brave, but because he knew that was what Thiruvadi wanted—a reaction. A flinch. A scream. Anything to feel stronger.
But the blade stopped mid-air.
A metallic click echoed from somewhere deeper in the compound.
Both boys turned.
A heavy, rusted door—one never used—had creaked open just slightly. A strange wind escaped from the gap, heavy with the scent of old blood and lightning.
Velan's breath caught. His body shivered without knowing why. It felt like… something familiar. Like a whisper at the edge of his dreams.
Thiruvadi scowled. "Stay here, dog." He walked off toward the sparring courtyard.
Velan didn't stay.
---
He stood before the door.
It wasn't part of the kitchen hall or servant quarters. It was deeper, colder. The door looked ancient, with sigils that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Tamil script curved around the metal frame—தூண்டாமல் திறக்க வேண்டாம். Do not open without purpose.
But Velan had no purpose. Just hunger.
He stepped forward anyway.
The moment he passed the threshold, the air thickened. The noise of the world behind him faded—no birds, no wind, no footsteps. Only silence, and the slow drip… drip… drip of something behind the altar.
Yes. An altar.
Stone. Etched with red-gold markings. At its center, a shallow bowl filled with dark, half-dried blood. Around it were statues—warped human figures with wings of ash, eyes blindfolded, mouths open in agony.
Velan reached out.
A voice echoed, not in the air—but inside him.
> "Do you suffer?"
His hands trembled. "Yes."
> "Do you burn?"
"Yes."
> "Then rise."
The bowl flared. The blood boiled without heat, swirling like a living thing. The markings on the floor flashed beneath Velan's feet, and something ancient, something impossibly old, uncoiled inside his spine.
He fell to his knees. He couldn't scream. He could only feel—like his veins were being rewritten.
Then it ended.
He was still himself… but not.
From the shadows, something stirred.
And the voice whispered once more:
> "You are chosen by the Shadow. But the world is not ready for you."
Velan stood.
For the first time in his life… he wasn't afraid.
---
End of Chapter 1