In the sacred valley of Pratham Vansh, dusk painted the sky in molten orange and gold. The ancient women of the divine lineage sat in quiet meditation, the air thick with incense and sacred chants. Suddenly, a blazing flare streaked across the heavens — a crimson symbol of fire burned above the horizon.
Startled, the women rose to their feet. "Pratham Vanshi Maa!" one of them gasped. "What new sign is this? We've never seen such a flame since the age of the Jalpanchi."
Pratham Vanshi lifted her gaze. The reflection of that fire danced in her wise, ageless eyes. The flames in the sky twisted into the shape of a burning phoenix before fading into embers.
Her voice trembled with both awe and dread.
"A new force is rising — one that will rival Gauri's powers."
The other women exchanged anxious looks. "But that cannot be," one whispered. "Gauri is the Jalpanchi, daughter of water itself. What darkness can threaten the daughter of the river?"
Pratham Vanshi turned to them slowly. "Not darkness…" she said gravely. "But fire — a power not born of evil, but of destiny itself."
She closed her eyes, and memories surged like waves from a forgotten shore.
---
Flashback – 25 Years Ago
The storm howled outside the little cottage nestled deep in the mountains. Inside, Vedika lay weak upon her bed, the light of two lamps flickering near her. Sweat drenched her forehead, but her eyes were tender as she looked at the two newborns placed beside her.
One child's tiny arm bore a shimmering blue mark — the symbol of the water phoenix.
The other, the mark of fire, glowing faintly like a burning coal.
Vedika whispered through trembling lips,
"Two daughters… born of the same womb… water and fire."
Outside, lightning struck — one side of the sky gleamed silver, the other burned red.
---
Back to Present
Pratham Vanshi opened her eyes, her expression solemn.
"If Gauri is water… then that girl is fire.
If Gauri is peace… that girl is storm."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Pratham Vanshi turned toward the flame still lingering faintly in the sky.
"The Firebird has awakened… Agni Paanchi — Gauri's twin sister."
The sacred bells tolled thrice on their own, echoing through the valley — as though the very heavens had acknowledged the arrival of a new destiny.
The small village of Suryapur gleamed with festivity. Lanterns swung from the tamarind trees, marigold garlands adorned every doorway, and laughter echoed through the dusty courtyard. In the center of it all, a group of girls danced to the beat of the dholak, their bangles chiming like tiny bells of joy.
Among them twirled a girl in a crimson ghagra, her anklets striking the rhythm with mischievous precision. Her laughter was contagious, her eyes alive with the kind of fire that no one could ignore.
"Kesar!" someone called. "Kesar, slow down! It's my wedding, not a festival of Holi!"
The bride — her best friend — tried to catch her breath, giggling between the beats. But Kesar only laughed louder, spinning in another circle and pulling her friend's hand. "Then make it a festival, dost! You're marrying, not getting buried alive!"
Everyone burst into laughter.
As the girls danced, a faint mark on Kesar's upper arm — a fire sigil shaped like a rising flame — shimmered briefly beneath the sweat and sunlight, before fading again into her skin, unseen by anyone else.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
The bride's mother stepped forward, frowning. "Enough of this shamelessness! Girls from good homes don't dance like this. A woman's duty is to cook, serve, and raise a family — not jump around like street performers."
The laughter faded. The bride looked down, embarrassed.
But Kesar stood still, her eyes sparkling with mischief and quiet rebellion. "Aunty," she began sweetly, "you worship Goddess Radha, don't you?"
The woman blinked. "Of course."
"Then tell me," Kesar continued, walking closer, her voice innocent yet sharp, "have you ever read a tale where Radha cooked or looked after children?"
The older woman frowned in confusion.
Kesar smiled. "Because in every story I know, she danced — joyfully — with her beloved Lord Krishna. So if dancing is a sin, then… did your Goddess commit one too?"
The courtyard fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the bride's mother's stern face softened, realization dawning in her eyes. Slowly, she sighed. "Go on then," she said quietly, a smile tugging at her lips. "Dance. Dance as much as you wish."
The dholak resumed. The girls laughed and began dancing again, brighter than before.
And as Kesar spun, the fire mark on her arm pulsed once — faint, but alive — as if awakening with the rhythm of her joy.