The wind smelled different today. Saltier. Sharper. Almost like it knew something was about to change.
Rana stood at the edge of the cliff, barefoot, staring into the restless sea below. His village, tucked behind the thick cliffs of Kagari, was still waking up. Fishermen shouted, boats creaked, and the old bell tower rang once. But Rana wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on the worn leather bag in his hand.
Inside it... the bow.
Not just any bow. One that refused to burn.
Three nights ago, when bandits attacked and set his grandmother's hut on fire, Rana had tried to save her. He failed. The fire devoured the only family he had. But the old bow she'd hidden under the floorboards? It came out without a scratch.
No burn marks. No smell of ash. Just a strange warmth — like it was breathing.
That was the first time it pulsed.
A light — faint and red like blood under skin — glowed from the carved markings on the grip. And for a moment, Rana swore he saw something flash across the sky. A shape. A mark.
A tattoo.
And now, it was on him too. On his wrist. Black. Faint. Almost alive.
But what did it mean?
He hadn't told anyone. Not even old Keku, the village smith, who had whispered once, "When weapons choose, they leave their mark. And the black mark… that's a myth, boy. Or a curse."
Rana didn't know if it was either. What he did know was: the bow had chosen him.
And the world — the rulers of the seas, the gods, the hunters — they had felt it too.
Far away, in a distant underwater palace lit by chains of bioluminescent coral, a masked man grinned from behind a throne of bones.
"The Elder Bow… has awakened."
Back in Kagari, Rana tightened the strap across his back. The bow rested softly against his spine.
He turned away from the sea.
He didn't know where the journey would take him. He didn't know about the Trishul. Or the 36 who would stand in his way. Not yet.
But he knew one thing.
He couldn't stay here anymore.
Because the sea… was watching.