Ayaan stepped away from the university gates, the adrenaline of the exam finally cooling down. He should have been ecstatic—he'd navigated Professor Durga's fierce gaze and successfully copied his way to a passing grade—but a single thought swirled in his mind like a persistent storm cloud: Ritesh.
He walked toward his home, his heavy boots rhythmically hitting the pavement. "Ritesh is just a simple bully," he mused, his internal voice calm and calculating. "Killing him would be too much for a school-day grudge. But his father... Aakash Kaushal is a man with strings tied to every corner of this city. I'm a mountain in a world of hills, but I still need to make connections. Let's see how far a father's love goes when confronted with a curse."
With that thought, he adjusted his bag and continued his journey. But miles away, far from the neon lights and concrete of the city, deep within a forest so dark the sun seemed to avoid it, something was stirring.
In the heart of this wilderness stood a tree that defied nature. It was taller than any other, looming over the canopy like a jagged, wooden finger pointing at the heavens. It stood out like a sore thumb because it was utterly dead—no leaves, no green, just long, skeletal branches that seemed to reach out to strangle the sky. At the very peak, a single fruit hung, deep red like a drop of fresh blood. Beneath it, the roots didn't drink water; they spat a thick, crimson liquid that stained the earth.
Back in the city, Ayaan suddenly stumbled. A deep, primal chill gripped his heart, so cold it felt like his blood had turned to slush.
"What is this?" he muttered, clutching his chest. He looked around frantically, but the city was as it always was—honking cars, distant chatter, the smell of street food. There was nothing out of the ordinary, yet the feeling of impending doom grew heavier with every breath.
The Kaushal Mansion
Inside the sterile, high-tech medical suite of the mansion, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and failure. No matter what machines the doctors hooked up, no matter what cutting-edge scans they ran, the results were always the same: Ritesh's body was perfect. But Ritesh was not.
He lay in the bed, a prisoner in his own skin. Tears simmered in his eyes, blurring his vision as he looked at his father. Aakash stood by the window, a silhouette against the city lights. A cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling around his head like a grey shroud.
"D...dad," Ritesh's voice was a fragile rasp. "What is happening to me? Am I... am I going to be like this for the rest of my life?"
Aakash didn't answer. He couldn't. His money, his influence, his power—it was all worthless here.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and an old man entered. He didn't wear a lab coat or carry a stethoscope. He wore a single piece of saffron cloth draped over his shoulder, leaving half his chest bare. His forehead was smeared with grey ash, and a garland of brown rudraksha beads hung around his neck.
He didn't speak. He simply walked to the bed and hovered his hand over Ritesh's forehead. As the sage closed his eyes, a vision erupted in his mind. He wasn't in a bedroom anymore; he was in a void, staring into the eyes of two massive serpents—one black, one white. Their scales shimmered with an oily light, and their blood-red eyes fixed on him with a gaze that could wither a soul.
The sage opened his eyes. He wasn't scared; he had a faint, knowing smile on his face.
"This mark... it must be him," the man whispered.
Aakash turned from the window, his eyes bloodshot. Seeing the sage's expression, he bowed his head in a rare show of humility. "Please, Lord... tell me what is wrong with my son."
"These doctors, these machines... you could spend your entire fortune and it would never work," the sage said, his voice like dry parchment. "To be honest, I was just amused why the boy isn't dead yet."
Aakash flinched as if he'd been struck. "What do you mean 'not dead'? I called you to cure him! Can't you do something?"
"This is not a disease, Aakash. It is a curse," the sage explained, taking a deep sigh. "And if what my vision showed me is true, this is the 'Curse of Curses.' The one who wields this power... he will be a force of nature, a law unto himself."
"Then how do I save him?" Aakash asked, his voice breaking.
"There is no cure to be found in herbs or prayers. The only way this weight is lifted is if the one who cast it decides to take it back. Looking at your son, it is clear the caster didn't want him dead. Perhaps he wants to talk. Perhaps he wants to paralyze his enemies. Only he knows."
The sage turned and began to walk toward the exit, his saffron robes fluttering. "Find the boy with the Azure eyes, Aakash. He is the only doctor your son has left."
On the other side of the city, walking through the shadows of the alleyways, the chill in Ayaan's heart grew into a freezing roar. Something was coming—something far older than Ritesh's father.