Shadowflame rising

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The village was gone.

Ashes drifted like silent ghosts through the wind, clinging to burnt bones and broken walls. Blood soaked deep into the earth, staining it forever. The silence that followed was heavier than war—an echo of loss no scream could fill.

Jalandhara sat on a jagged rock at the edge of the ruins, sword buried into the ground beside him. His armor was torn and bloodstained, his shoulders sagging—not from wounds, but from memory.

He looked to the sky, hollow-eyed.

"Vrinda…"

The name left his lips like a prayer—cracked and bitter.

She had been the only light in his world of shadows. Jalandhara had never been loved. Not by his parents. Not by fate. Not even by the gods.

But Vrinda… she was different.

She never saw the monster others feared. Never flinched at his scars. She smiled when others turned away. Where the world saw a weapon, she saw a man.

At first, she kept her distance.

But slowly, her voice softened. Her glances lingered. She started waiting for him to return. And with time, she became the only reason he held onto what little humanity he had left.

Until the day she vanished.

---

That day, Jalandhara was fighting in a distant village, cutting down enemy soldiers with brutal precision. He moved like a storm, unstoppable. Unforgiving.

And then—mid-battle—something in him shattered.

A feeling. A void. As if something had been torn from his soul.

His grip faltered. His vision blurred. The blade slipped.

For the first time… he lost.

He crawled home, body broken and mind unraveling, only to find emptiness. No Vrinda. No goodbye. No sign of struggle.

Just silence.

The villagers whispered.

"She left."

"She was taken."

Others said nothing at all.

---

That night, Jalandhara wandered through the blackened alleys, calling her name into the dark, his voice cracking like dried wood.

And from the shadows, someone followed him.

Vyoma.

She moved quietly, like she always had. No weapons. No commands. Just eyes that still believed in him.

"I saw her," Vyoma whispered. "It wasn't random. Someone planned it."

He turned, his face hollowed by loss.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know," she said. "But I'll find her."

Her hand reached for his, trembling.

"I'll bring her back. No matter what it takes."

---

Since that night, neither of them remained the same.

Jalandhara no longer fought for land or power.

Vyoma no longer mapped strategies for war.

They burned villages—not for victory, but for answers. For signs.

Somewhere in the smoke and ruin… Vrinda was still alive.

And they would tear the world apart to find her.

---

Chapter>>

Where Jalandhar meet with vyoma:

The war tent stank of iron, sweat, and fire.

Inside, Jalandhara's commanders argued in a tight circle, fists pounding against a torn battlefield map. Ink smudged into blood. Their voices cracked with frustration. Every symbol on the map marked a grave—sons, brothers, fathers.

Jalandhara stood silent at the head of the table. His cracked armor bore the story of the last battle. His jaw was tight, his arms crossed.

But it wasn't exhaustion in his eyes.

It was fury.

They were surrounded—hemmed into a ravine by three rival clans. The north and east burned with fire traps. The river to the west was flooded and poisoned. The south? A stretch of desert that promised only death.

Ten thousand warriors waited outside. Wounded. Cornered.

No one had a plan.

Then—she entered.

---

No guards announced her. No name preceded her.

She slipped into the tent like smoke.

Clad in ash-colored robes and a veil over her lips, she moved without hesitation, unbothered by the stares. There was something eerie in her calm—like she belonged to silence itself.

The generals scowled.

"Who is this?" barked General Vardhak. "A spy? This is a war council—"

"Silence," Jalandhara said.

His voice sliced through the air. Everyone turned.

He watched her carefully. One brow raised.

She stepped forward, unsheathing a short obsidian blade. Without a word, she dragged it across the torn map, connecting two cliffs.

A narrow, forgotten gap.

"The Night's Pass," she said. "Unmarked. Hidden. Move under moonlight, and you'll strike from behind before dawn."

A young lieutenant laughed bitterly. "That trail's cursed. Even shepherds avoid it."

"Exactly," she said. "Your enemies won't expect the impossible."

---

Jalandhara stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?"

"Vyoma," she replied. "From Tamraloka. Daughter of no one. I was raised among maps, not men. I read war—I do not wage it."

"If this is a trap," he said coldly, "you'll answer for it."

"Then let me walk it first."

No fear. No pride. Just truth.

He stared a long moment. Then nodded.

---

That night, under Vyoma's command, the first units moved.

The Night's Pass was cruel—narrow, jagged, and silent as death. The mountain whispered in the dark. Wolves howled. Many looked back.

But Vyoma led from the front. Cloak blending into the black, steps silent, eyes often closed—like she could hear the land breathing.

By dawn, they were behind enemy lines.

The counterattack was swift. Ruthless. Perfect.

The enemy shattered in confusion. Three hours later, it was done.

---

At dusk, Jalandhara found her seated on a stone, cleaning her untouched blade. Blood stained her boots. None of it hers.

He crossed his arms, standing beside her.

"Your path worked."

She didn't look up. "Paths always work. People lose faith halfway."

"What did it cost you to find it?"

Her voice turned soft. "Everything. But that's not your burden."

He said nothing.

Then sat beside her.

"You didn't flinch. Not once."

"Fear is wasted breath."

He looked at her—not as a commander, but as a man who hadn't expected to feel again.

"You've changed the war."

"I didn't come to change it," she said. Her eyes met his. "I came to stand beside the man who could end it."

---

From that night on, Vyoma walked beside no one.

She became the quiet shadow at Jalandhara's side—the mind behind his fury, the balance to his fire.

And though neither spoke it aloud… something changed each time their eyes met across the battlefield.

Something neither war nor fate could unmake.

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