Aarush stood silently by the window of Flarehearth Castle. His eyes were distant, lost in thought, and he blinked so infrequently it seemed as though even that small movement took effort. His gaze was locked onto the sea, watching the waves roll in, each one crashing and dissolving like thoughts in his mind. The colour of the water matched his eyes—cold, deep, and unreadable. The rising noise of the city below did not seem to reach him. It was as if his mind had detached from the world around him.
Standing beside him was Vahagn. The fierce wind outside tossed his long hair across his face, but he casually brushed it aside with his left hand—the same hand that bore a deep scar, jagged like a blade had pierced through it. Vahagn was tall, muscular, and carried the presence of a warrior, though his face was unremarkable. His eyes, however, were dark and intense—eyes that had seen too many battles. Aarush, by contrast, had an otherworldly elegance. With sharp, noble features, he looked less like a man and more like a figure carved by divine hands.
The silence between them deepened. Outside, the city roared with life, but inside, the stillness was absolute. It was not peace—it was focus.
After a few moments, Aarush exhaled slowly and broke the silence.
"It's troubling, Vahagn," he said, his voice calm but heavy with concern. "They are targeting us—the Sapt Rakshak. Arjuna has disappeared. There's no trace, no word. And this attack… it wasn't meant for the city. We were supposed to arrive here a day earlier. I believe they came for us."
He turned slightly toward Vahagn, the weight of leadership visible in his expression.
"Send a message to the other Sapt Rakshak—wherever they may be. Let them know they are the targets now. I'm especially worried about Lucan and his son. He's undercover in the West, working as a commander in their army. If something were wrong, we should've heard from him. But there's been nothing. It pains me to say this… but we may have already lost them."
Vahagn remained still. His face was unreadable, but his silence was not indifference—it was rage, seething quietly beneath the surface. His clenched jaw and narrowed eyes betrayed the storm inside him.
Through gritted teeth, he muttered, "I'll kill them…"
But before he could continue, Aarush turned to him. His expression remained composed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze—an intensity that pierced through Vahagn's fury and froze him mid-sentence. That look alone carried the weight of unspoken authority.
Aarush spoke again, his voice steady and commanding, yet burning with restrained anger.
"Killing them is not the priority. We may be on the brink of war. They are not just attacking us—they are attacking the shield that protects our great nations. There has been betrayal. But your rage must not be misplaced. Go and inform the others."
Vahagn lowered his eyes and nodded, silently accepting the order. Without another word, he turned and left to deliver the message to all the remaining Sapt Rakshak—except Lucan. It had always been Lucan who sent information, never received it. Reaching out to him now could put his life at greater risk.
Aarush sat down, quickly penned a message, and sent it to the Queen. Then, once more, he returned to the window. His weapon remained slung across his back, gleaming faintly as sunlight caught its edge. He stood still, burdened with the weight of looming war—but not afraid. His concern was not for himself but for his people. He was the rightful King of Sindhuraajya—a king who had never claimed the throne. A king who had sacrificed the crown for something greater.
Far away, a sea wave struck the base of an ancient fortress—now converted into a heavily guarded prison. Inside one of its damp, dimly lit cells, two men sat slumped against the wall. One was in his youth, the other in the fading years of his prime. Their bodies were frail, bruised, and starved.
Without warning, a squad of soldiers burst into the cell. They tied the men's hands and feet with coarse ropes, then dragged them across the cold stone floor. Horses were waiting outside. The prisoners were tied to them and dragged for miles, until they reached the heart of Tharnok—the largest and most fortified city in the West.
In the city centre, a ring of soldiers had formed. The prisoners were thrown into the middle of the circle like discarded meat. Kicks and punches followed. Their groans were low, but the pain was written all over their faces.
Then, from the crowd, two figures emerged—masked men in black armour. The same two who had attacked Flarehearth. As they stepped into the circle, all soldiers dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in reverence.
The prisoners lay motionless. Blood coated their faces. The older man slowly raised his head. When his eyes met the two masked figures standing over him, fear replaced all other emotions. Perhaps he recognized the weapon. Perhaps he knew that his time had run out.
One of the masked men took a step forward and spoke, his tone cold and mocking.
"Lucan the Fearless. That's what they used to call you. The man who single-handedly defeated ten Pishacha. And now? Look at you—shaking. You can't even live up to your name."
Lucan looked up, blood dripping from his lips, and asked weakly, "Who are you?"
The masked man chuckled—a sound that sent chills through the air.
"To you, I am death. To the East, I will be a conqueror. And to this world—I am god."
Before Lucan could respond, the second masked man stepped forward. He grabbed the younger prisoner—Lucan's son—by the collar. In one swift motion, he decapitated him. The boy's head fell to the ground with a sickening thud, like fruit from a tree severed too soon.
Lucan howled in agony. His cries were raw, animalistic. He screamed curses—at the masked men, at the gods, at fate itself.
Then the masked men removed their masks.
And what was revealed beneath shattered Lucan's soul. He stared at their faces, stunned.
"It can't be… How is this possible? How can it be you…"
But he never finished. The other masked man raised his weapon—Tuhindra's blade—and struck Lucan down. In an instant, his body disintegrated into ash.
Then the other turned to the soldiers and spoke with cruel pride.
"We have sent them a message. The East will fall. It will kneel before me. And I—will lead it into a new era of glory."
At that, the soldiers erupted into chants:
"All hail the king! All hail the king!"