Shadowflame rising

---

The morning wind carried more than just the scent of smoke and dew.

It carried news.

Stacks of printed paper fluttered through the streets, tossed from carts, slipped under doors, pinned to wooden posts. Children ran barefoot, shouting headlines. Men paused mid-work, reading aloud. Women gasped and whispered.

At the center of it all stood a name—

Devarshi.

A quiet man with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers, Devarshi had turned an old printing press into a weapon sharper than any blade. His newspaper, "The Echo of Flame," didn't just report the war—it exposed it.

He printed the truth no one dared to speak.

About the Kara Army's movements. About the missing bodies. About the soldiers who never came back.

But this morning's headline hit harder than any before.

> "THE FALL OF A MAHARATHI – BETRAYAL WRITTEN IN BLOOD"

Once a protector of the East, now a forgotten traitor. Jamadigini—the father of Parashu—accused of treason after abandoning his post during the final battle. His disappearance led to the death of hundreds, the nameless one who fought beside Parashu, and died never owning a name, a rank, or even a story.

Parashu held the paper in his hands, his knuckles white.

The edges trembled.

His chest tightened. Eyes scanned the words again and again.

Each sentence was a dagger.

His friend... the one who always walked behind him, who gave his all but never got the glory—now reduced to a footnote. His father, called a traitor. A coward. A shadow.

Parashu couldn't breathe.

He crushed the paper.

A low growl escaped his throat. His eyes flickered—not with anger, but with something darker.

Inside him, something stirred.

Something old.

Something bound in whispers and ash.

Yakshini.

She moved like smoke behind his thoughts, her presence curling around his rage.

Feeding on it.

Drinking it.

She whispered to him in a voice made of silk and poison:

"Let me in… I will give them something to fear."

Parashu's muscles locked. His heart pounded like war drums. The sky tilted. His vision blurred.

He couldn't hear the village anymore.

Until—

A hand gripped his shoulder. Firm. Grounding.

Master Vishma.

His eyes, cold and sharp like a blade held too long in fire, met Parashu's.

"Control it," he said.

"Feel it—but don't feed it."

Parashu's breath came fast.

"If you lose control now," Vishma continued, "you will not get your body back. She will take over—and once she does, she will burn not just the Kara army… but the world."

The paper fell from Parashu's fingers.

Ash drifted from its corner as it caught a spark from a nearby torch.

He looked at Vishma. Sweat dripped from his brow. His fists trembled.

"I'm… I'm trying," he whispered.

Vishma nodded once.

"Good. Because the world doesn't need another monster. It needs you."

---