|• A U T H O R •|

“Once upon a time, there was a kingdom…”

The old man’s voice rose above the restless hum of the market, steady and practiced, as though he had told this story a hundred times before—and perhaps he had.

“A kingdom prosperous and peaceful,” he continued, his wrinkled fingers tracing slow patterns over the marble beneath him. “Where the winds carried laughter, not sorrow… where nights were quiet, and mornings kinder.”

Around him, the world refused to pause.

Vendors called out prices, their voices overlapping in a chaotic melody. Bangles clinked, fabrics brushed against one another in bursts of color, and the scent of spices lingered thick in the warm air. People passed by without stopping, their attention claimed by celebration rather than stories they had long memorized.

But not everyone walked away.

A circle of children sat at his feet—boys and girls alike—eyes wide, chins resting on their palms, leaning closer with every word as if the story still held magic for them.

The old man’s voice dipped, slower now, heavier.

“But nothing… lasts forever.”

A brief pause.

“Prosperity turned into a curse. Peace was replaced by screams. And the winds… they changed their direction.”

His gaze lifted, not to the children, but somewhere far beyond them—somewhere memory still lingered.

“War,” he said quietly.

The word seemed to settle differently.

“Blood… and betrayal.”

A child shifted uncomfortably. Another leaned closer.

And then, as if remembering the ending they all preferred, the old man straightened slightly, a faint pride returning to his tone.

“But whenever darkness rises… a hero is born to face it.”

A small smile touched his lips.

“And he came.”

The children leaned forward in unison now.

“Our king.”

The words were no longer heavy—they were triumphant, rehearsed, almost sacred.

“He sacrificed everything to bring victory. To reclaim peace. Twenty five years ago, when the boundaries were redrawn… when losing our own was called necessary… he knelt, not in defeat, but for us.”

The old man’s voice grew louder, stronger, carrying over the noise of the market.

“He gave away land so that we may keep our lives. He bore the weight so that we may celebrate today.”

His hand lifted slightly, as if presenting something unseen yet deeply revered.

“Our great Maharaja…”

Beyond him, the market shimmered with festivity.

Garlands hung from carved pillars, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. Golden threads of decoration caught the light, reflecting it in soft glimmers across the crowd. Laughter echoed, drums sounded somewhere in the distance, and the air itself felt alive with celebration... for today marked the seventieth birthday of the man they called their saviour.

And yet,

No one stopped to listen.

Not the merchants. Not the nobles passing through. Not the guards standing at a distance.

Only the children remained, holding onto a story the world around them had already accepted… without question.

“Our great Maharaja…”

The words came again—but this time, they did not belong to the old man.

They did not carry pride.

They did not carry reverence.

They carried something else.

Something broken.

Heads turned almost at once.

From the direction of the palace, a man came running—his steps uneven, his breath ragged, as if each step cost him more than the last. His clothes were disheveled, dust clinging to him, and his voice… his voice trembled as it rose again.

“Our great Maharaj Ranjith Singh ...”

But this time, the words cracked.

The pride that once filled them was gone—replaced by something raw, something unbearable.

He stumbled to a halt before the storyteller, his body folding forward as his hands dropped to his knees. His chest heaved violently, breaths coming in short, broken bursts. For a moment, he could not speak—only the sound of his struggling breath filled the space.

“Our king… got killed.”

The words did not come as a sentence.

They came as a collapse.

His voice broke midway, turning into a sob that tore through the noise of the market. His knees gave in, hitting the ground with a dull sound, as if the weight of what he carried had finally dragged him down.

Silence followed.

Not the peaceful kind.

A stunned, suffocating silence.

The chaos of the market halted as though the world itself had forgotten how to move. Vendors stopped mid-call, hands froze in the air, footsteps faltered. Faces turned—confused, disbelieving, searching for denial in each other’s eyes.

But none came.

Only shock.

Only fear.

The old man did not speak.

The crowd did not speak.

Until a small voice broke through.

“…The hero got killed?”

It was one of the children.

The same child who had listened with shining eyes just moments ago now stared ahead, confusion trembling into fear.

“Does that mean…” the child swallowed, voice growing quieter, “…the villain will come for us again… after twenty-five years?”

The question did not rise loudly.

But it spread.

Like a crack through glass.

Like a memory no one wished to remember.

The man on his knees let out a broken breath, lifting his tear-filled eyes toward the child. His lips parted, but for a moment, no words came—only the trembling of someone who had seen too much, too suddenly.

“Yes…”

The answer was barely a whisper at first.

Then it broke again.

“Yes… that ruthless… monster…”

His voice shook, grief and terror intertwining as he spoke, yet even in his despair, he did not da

re to say the name.

As if speaking it aloud would bring the darkness closer.

As if the fear itself had a form… and it was already on its way.

............................ continue !