Nagantara: The Trilogy of Realms

The sky above the Celestial Palace bore an ominous countenance that night. Where once it was adorned with an eternal tapestry of stars, now a veil of darkness loomed heavy. Black clouds gathered from the four corners of the heavens, swirling into a vast vortex above the peak of Mount Mahameru. Lightning split the heavens ceaselessly, threading between the clouds in blinding flashes, and in those fleeting bursts of light, the shape of a coiling dragon seemed to emerge.

The Celestial Palace, resplendent with its towering crystal pillars that emanated a soft, ethereal glow, was shrouded in an air of unease. Servants moved in haste, their faces marked with an unusual fear rarely seen in the realm of the gods. The halls, once steeped in tranquil silence, now echoed with anxious whispers.

"What is happening to the sky tonight?" a young handmaiden asked, her voice trembling. She clutched a golden tray bearing incense, her hands unsteady.

An older servant, his face lined with years of wisdom, shook his head gravely. "This is no ordinary night. It is a portent of ill fate. The prophecy... it may have come to pass."

Upon the grand balcony of the palace, the gods stood in solemn silence, their eyes fixed upon the ominous maelstrom above. Faces that were once serene now bore shadows of dread. At their center stood Indra Sagara, their sovereign, his golden robe flowing like liquid sunlight beneath the erratic glow of lightning. His Thunderstaff rested against his hand, pulsing with a faint yet formidable azure radiance.

"The heavens are speaking," murmured a minor deity, his voice hushed, nearly a whisper. "This is the night foretold by the prophecy. The child... the child shall be born."

Indra Sagara did not respond. His gaze remained locked upon the swirling abyss above, as though hearing a voice that none other could perceive. The rolling thunder reverberated through his very soul, an echo of the omen foretold in ages past.

The prophecy had spoken thus:

"From the heavens shall be born an heir marked by the dragon's sign. He shall stand as the bridge between the three realms: the world of men, the domain of gods, and the abyss of darkness. Yet this bridge, if unguarded, may bring ruin upon them all."

A tempest of thoughts surged within him. As King of the Gods, it was his solemn duty to uphold the balance of the three realms. But tonight, the prophecy was no longer a distant warning—it was entwined with his own blood. The child was his own flesh and kin, carried within the womb of his queen, Ratnadewi.

"Your Majesty," came the voice of a messenger, approaching with a countenance grim. "The Council of the Gods convenes even now. A decision is to be made. They have decreed that the child must—"

Indra Sagara raised a hand, cutting him off. His voice was cold, resolute. "I know," he said. "I shall come."

His footsteps were heavy as he left the balcony, making his way toward the grand hall where the Council of the Gods had gathered. Yet before he could face them, his path turned toward another chamber—one far more sacred to him. Slowly, he walked toward the quarters of his queen, Ratnadewi.

Inside her chamber, Ratnadewi lay upon a bed of gold, her body trembling under the weight of unbearable pain. Yet her eyes, unwavering and resolute, remained open, staring ahead with a strength that defied her suffering. She knew what was unfolding beyond these walls, and she knew that her role in this night was far greater than she could have ever foreseen.

The corridor leading to the queen's chamber lay in eerie silence. A cold wind seeped through the cracks of the great crystal windows, carrying the scent of rain—a scent that belonged not to the heavens, but to the world of men. The sound of Indra Sagara's footsteps echoed softly, yet each step was heavy, burdened by the weight of the thoughts that clouded his mind.

When he pushed open the chamber door, he was greeted by a soft blue radiance emanating from Ratnadewi's form. She lay beneath a golden mantle, the shimmering fabric barely covering her trembling body. Beads of sweat traced delicate lines down her pale face, but her eyes—sharp, unwavering—fixed upon her husband.

"Indra," she whispered, her voice like the rustling of leaves before a storm. "You need not fear. I know what must be done."

Indra Sagara stepped closer, standing by her bedside, his hands trembling. "The prophecy has never been wrong, Ratnadewi," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow he could not conceal. "This child… this child bears the mark of the dragon. The mark of ruin."

A faint smile touched Ratnadewi's lips, though her body writhed under the relentless pain. Her fingers clutched tightly at a blue silk sash entwined around her wrist—the very same sash her mother had gifted her before she left the world of men. "You cannot see him as such, Indra. He is hope. He is our blood."

"Hope can be ruin," Indra Sagara murmured. Yet this time, his voice lacked the certainty it once held. Beneath his words, doubt whispered—a doubt he could not silence.

Suddenly, Ratnadewi's body convulsed. A sharp cry escaped her lips as another wave of searing pain struck. The light around her flared, its silver radiance flooding the chamber, forcing the gathered attendants to shield their eyes.

"Bring water!" one of the attendants cried in alarm. But each time they tried to approach, the force of Ratnadewi's energy pushed them back.

Indra Sagara stood motionless, his gaze locked upon his queen, who fought a battle that no sword or magic could aid. In his heart, he felt torn—between his duty as King of the Gods and the yearning of a father.

But this night, he knew there was nothing he could do but wait.

The light from Ratnadewi's body reached its zenith. Slowly, the mark of the dragon emerged upon her back, glowing with a terrible beauty. Then, with a final cry that shook the very walls of the chamber, a newborn's wail pierced through the storm—a sound like the tolling of a great bell breaking the tempest's fury.

Cradled in Ratnadewi's arms lay a newborn son. His form was small and delicate, yet upon his back shimmered the mark of the coiling dragon, its silver-blue radiance pulsing with a life of its own. It was no mere sigil, no simple birthmark—it breathed, it thrummed, in harmony with the child's every breath.

Tears glistened on Ratnadewi's cheeks as she gazed upon him with a weary yet tender smile.

"Nagantara," she whispered, her voice steeped in love. "Your name shall be Nagantara."

His first cry did not remain within the confines of that chamber alone—it echoed through the Celestial Palace, resounding far beyond its crystalline halls. High above, the swirling storm clouds began to part, unveiling a sky strewn with a thousand stars.

Far below, at the foot of Mount Mahameru, an elder of the mortal realm—deep in his prayers—paused, his gaze lifting toward the distant peak. A tremor ran through his aged frame as he beheld the heavens.

"The sky speaks," he murmured in awe, his voice trembling with reverence and dread alike.

Deep within the earth, beneath the roots of existence itself, the ancient dragon Antaboga stirred. For a thousand years, he had slumbered, coiled around the Tree of Life, undisturbed by the turning of ages. But now, his eyes—vast and luminous as the molten core of the world—opened. The titanic form of the dragon shuddered, sensing the ripple in fate carried upon the newborn's cry.

"He has come," the dragon intoned, his voice rumbling like the shifting of mountains. "The world shall never be the same."

In her chamber, Ratnadewi clutched her son to her chest, though her strength waned with every passing moment. She knew her time was fleeting. And yet, as she gazed into her child's eyes, she saw not ruin, but hope.

"You are our light, my son," she whispered, her voice barely above breath. "I may not walk this path beside you, but you shall be stronger than any who came before."

From the shadows of the chamber, Indra Sagara watched, his countenance unreadable, his heart burdened by a tempest of emotions. Upon the child's back, the dragon's mark shimmered—a mark of prophecy, a mark he could not ignore. He knew the Council of the Gods would not be idle. He knew this night was but the beginning of a far greater storm.

At last, he spoke, his voice low, cold with unspoken resolve.

"Ratnadewi," he murmured. "You know he will not be safe here."

Ratnadewi did not reply. She only held Nagantara closer, as if by sheer will alone, she could shield him from all the world's peril.

Beyond that chamber, the Celestial Palace itself trembled with unseen forces. Upon the grand balconies, the gathered gods beheld the glowing light that seeped from Ratnadewi's chamber, casting spectral shadows upon the crystalline walls. And within those walls, for but a fleeting moment, the image of a great dragon—vast and coiled—was seen, its form woven of light and shadow, an omen upon the sacred halls of the gods.

"The prophecy speaks true," one of the gods muttered, his voice taut with unease. "The child bears the mark of the dragon."

"If he lives, destruction shall follow," another god declared, his tone unwavering.

"But the prophecy also names him as a bridge," a younger deity countered. "Perhaps he is the answer to the world's plight."

Their debate did not last long. A hush fell over them as they beheld a figure approaching—a messenger of the Council of the Gods, moving with solemn purpose toward the Great Hall.

Tall and imposing, he was clad in flowing black robes embroidered with golden clouds. In his hands, he bore a scroll, its seal of gold marking the highest decree of the celestial realm.

Within the Great Hall, the Council of the Gods had convened. At the head of the assembly sat the High Elder, an ancient deity whose flowing white hair trailed like mist upon the crystalline floor. He struck his staff against the ground, and the chamber trembled at the force of his voice.

"We cannot ignore this prophecy. The mark of the dragon is a sign of ruin. If this child is allowed to live, the balance of the world shall be undone."

"But he could also bring hope," a younger council member argued. "The prophecy never claimed that he would certainly bring destruction. If we act too hastily, we may destroy what was meant to save us."

The High Elder turned to him, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"The greatest risk is in letting him live. This world cannot gamble on mere possibilities. The decision has been made. The child must be eliminated."

No further words were spoken. The decree was final. The messenger bowed low before taking his leave, bearing the council's will to Indra Sagara, King of the Gods.

In Ratnadewi's chamber, peace lingered but for a fleeting moment. Cradling Nagantara in her arms, she heard the heavy footsteps approaching.

A faithful attendant entered, her face pale with fear.

"Your Majesty," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The Council has spoken. They have decreed… that the child must not be allowed to live."

Ratnadewi did not flinch, though the words struck her heart like a blade. She lowered her gaze to the infant nestled against her, his breath soft and peaceful, untouched by the weight of the world that had already turned against him.

Her body was frail, but within her, an unyielding strength surged.

"I know," she said at last, her voice steady. "They are afraid. They do not understand what he truly is."

The attendant lowered her head, unsure of what to say. But before she could retreat, Ratnadewi reached out, her touch gentle upon the woman's arm.

"I need you to take him," she said, her voice now firm, imbued with quiet resolve. "Take him from the Celestial Palace. To the world of men. Protect him. Of all souls in this realm, you are the one I trust most."

The attendant gasped, but upon seeing the unwavering resolve in Ratnadewi's eyes, she found herself unable to refuse.

"I shall protect him, Your Majesty—even at the cost of my own life."

A faint smile touched Ratnadewi's lips. With great care, she placed Nagantara into the attendant's arms, wrapping him in the blue silk shawl she had carried from the world of men.

"Take him away this night. Do not return here. Ensure his safety."

The attendant bowed deeply, then turned swiftly toward the hidden passage behind the chamber. Her steps were swift, but within her heart, a storm of fear and duty raged.

Ratnadewi remained where she was, her body weary but her spirit unbroken. She knew that the choice she had made this night would likely demand her ultimate sacrifice. Yet she did not waver. For her child, she would give everything.

The chamber was now bathed only in the lingering glow of the dragon's mark upon Nagantara's back, though he was no longer there. The air hung heavy, as if the very room held its breath, bracing for the inevitable.

She sat at the edge of her gilded bed, her gaze fixed upon the secret door where her child had vanished into the world of men.

Then, the sound of heavy footfalls echoed through the main corridor.

Three celestial guards approached her door, their expressions resolute. Clad in resplendent silver robes that shimmered under the last flickers of lightning beyond the palace walls, they bore luminous spears in their hands.

A fist struck the door, firm and unrelenting.

"Ratnadewi." A commanding voice rang through the chamber. "Open the door. We come under the orders of the Council of the Gods."

For a moment, Ratnadewi closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, steeling herself. When she opened them once more, they held nothing but unwavering resolve.

She knew they would not leave without an answer.

"Enter," she said at last, her voice quiet yet firm.

The door swung open, and the three sentinels strode in with measured steps, their eyes scanning the chamber with cold precision.

One of them stepped forward, his gaze locked upon Ratnadewi, his expression void of warmth.

"Where is the child?" he demanded, his voice devoid of patience.

Ratnadewi did not answer. She remained seated, her fingers clutching the blue silk shawl that had once wrapped around Nagantara. A soft glow radiated from the fabric, filling the room with a faint, lingering warmth amid the frigid tension that now gripped the air.

"The child is gone," she said at last, her voice calm and unwavering. "You will not find him."

One of the guards stepped forward, his face darkened with anger.

"Ratnadewi, this is defiance against the decree of the Council. If you shield him, you will be deemed a traitor."

Slowly, Ratnadewi lifted her gaze, her eyes sharp despite the frailty of her form.

"A traitor?" A faint, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I am a mother. No mother would allow harm to befall her child, not even by the hands of the gods."

Another guard advanced, reaching for the blue silk shawl clutched in her hands—but he faltered. The fabric glowed fiercely, its azure light expanding into a barrier of energy that forced them to step back.

"Ratnadewi, you cannot defy us," the first guard insisted. "The Council has spoken. The child must not live."

With great effort, Ratnadewi straightened, though her limbs trembled beneath her. Yet in her eyes, there was no hesitation—only an unyielding certainty.

"I do not defy you," she said. "But you shall not lay a hand upon my son."

Once more, the light surrounding her flared—brighter, stronger than before. It was not the same radiance that had come with her labor; it was now focused, sharp as a blade of celestial fire. The guards shielded their eyes, stepping back, yet they did not yield. One of them, determined, lifted his spear, ready to pierce through the light.

And then—

"Enough."

A deep voice resounded from the doorway, steady and filled with authority.

The three guards turned sharply, then immediately bowed low.

Indra Sagara stood at the threshold, his Thunderstaff pulsing softly in his grasp. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes burned with inner conflict.

He stepped forward, disregarding the guards who stood motionless at his side.

"Leave us." His command was curt, final. "I will handle this."

The guards hesitated for but a moment before bowing once more. Without protest, they retreated, shutting the doors behind them.

Now, only Indra Sagara and Ratnadewi remained within the chamber.

Though her radiance dimmed, the fire in her eyes did not fade.

"Indra," she whispered, her voice both pleading and resolute. "I will not let them harm our son."

He drew closer, his gaze lowering to the blue silk shawl still clutched tightly in her grasp.

"He is of us, Ratnadewi," Indra Sagara murmured. "But you know what the prophecy foretells. He is the bridge between the three realms… but a bridge may also bring ruin."

"A prophecy is but a prophecy," Ratnadewi declared firmly. "We cannot sacrifice our child for fear of what may come."

Indra Sagara was silent. He gazed at Ratnadewi, seeing in her the same unyielding spirit that had first drawn him to her. Yet beneath that strength, he also saw desperation—the boundless love of a mother, willing to defy even the gods to protect her child.

"I will not stand against you, Ratnadewi," he said at last. "But the Council will not relent. If you choose to protect him, you must be prepared to face the consequences."

A faint smile graced Ratnadewi's lips, though tears streaked her cheeks.

"I was prepared the moment I knew I carried him."

Indra Sagara closed his eyes for a brief moment, then turned away without another word. As he reached the door, he hesitated, his voice low and heavy.

"I pray that you are right, Ratnadewi."

Then the door closed behind him, leaving Ratnadewi alone in the dimly lit chamber. She sat upon the edge of the bed, her body weary yet her heart steadfast. The battle was far from over, but for this night, she had won the first fight.

In the shadowed corridor leading to the secret gate of the Celestial Palace, a lone handmaiden hurried forward, her arms cradling the slumbering infant. Her steps were swift, yet measured, for she dared not make a sound.

The flickering glow of crystalline torches cast shifting shadows upon the walls, their cold blue light illuminating the silent flight.

Nestled in her embrace, the child slept peacefully—yet upon his back, the dragon's mark continued to gleam faintly, pulsing as though it lived and breathed with him. Its light made secrecy all the more difficult, but she knew she could not falter. Ratnadewi's command had been clear: she must take the child far from the Celestial Palace—far from the reach of the gods.

At last, she came upon a great stone door, its towering surface adorned with the carved image of a coiled dragon. The creature's eyes, twin orbs of glowing crimson, gleamed like smoldering embers.

This was the Gate to the Mortal Realm, a passage known only to the few who had been entrusted with its secret.

She took a steadying breath and lifted a trembling hand, pressing her fingers against the carving at the door's center.

At her touch, the stone trembled, as if the ancient gateway had been roused from slumber. Slowly, inexorably, it began to part, revealing a narrow pathway that led into darkness.

A chill wind rushed forth from beyond, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and mountain air.

The handmaiden bowed her head, whispering to the silence.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," she murmured, though none were there to hear. "I must go."

Stepping forward, she crossed the threshold, cradling the child protectively against her chest.

With a final glance, she pulled the gate shut behind her.

Before her stretched the world of mortals—vast, perilous, and unknown. A world of shadows and danger, but also of hope.

Clutching the heir to the heavens, she pressed forward, her every step carrying her deeper into the destiny that had been foretold.

In Ratnadewi's chamber, silence hung thick as mist. She sat upon the edge of her gilded bed, her gaze fixed upon the blue silk shawl, the same fabric that had once swaddled Nagantara. Her body was frail, her breath shallow, yet she harbored no regret.

The door opened without a sound.

Indra Sagara entered, his steps slow, measured. Weariness lined his face, yet his countenance was calmer than before. He moved toward Ratnadewi, standing beside her without a word.

At last, she spoke, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"He is gone."

Her words drifted through the still air, soft yet resolute. "Our child will be safe in the world of men."

Indra Sagara looked upon her, then gave a slow, solemn nod.

"For now, perhaps," he murmured. "But the Council will not relent, Ratnadewi. They will seek him."

A faint smile played upon Ratnadewi's lips.

"Let them search. They will not find him. The mortal world is vaster than they know."

Indra Sagara did not reply. He only stood there, watching his wife as her strength waned. Though he was King of the Gods, there was no power in the heavens that could halt the will of fate.

Ratnadewi closed her eyes, drawing a long, trembling breath.

"Indra," she whispered, "I know I may not live to see him grow. But you must believe—he will be greater than us all. He will bring the change that this world has long awaited."

Indra Sagara clenched his fists, but in the end, he could only nod.

"I pray you are right, Ratnadewi."

A few moments later, her breath ceased.

The gentle glow that had surrounded her form faded, leaving only the soft stillness of her features. Indra Sagara did not move, nor did he weep—but within him, he felt the weight of an immeasurable loss. The heavens had dimmed, for something irreplaceable had been taken from the world.

Far below, in the realm of mortals, the lone handmaiden pressed forward along the stone path of Mount Mahameru.

The biting wind of the night seeped through the fabric of her garments, but she paid it no heed. She clutched the child closer, shielding his tiny form against the cold.

"You will be safe," she murmured, though she knew the child could not yet understand. "I swear, I will protect you."

The infant stirred, his silver-blue eyes slowly fluttering open.

He gazed up at the handmaiden, his expression serene, as if he understood her words. The dragon's mark upon his back pulsed faintly, its gentle light radiating warmth amid the night's chill.

Above them, the sky stretched vast and endless, once more adorned with a thousand stars. But among them, one light shone brighter than the rest—a solitary blue star, unwavering in its brilliance.

A sign.

A reminder.

That something had been set into motion.

That something had been born into the world—something that would change the fate of the Three Realms forever.