Deep within the damp, lightless cellar, Vyan’s consciousness drifted away from the cold stone floor and the smell of his own blood.
He retreated into the only sanctuary left—a memory.
The air in the memory was sweet, smelling of crushed jasmine and the sharp, clean scent of rain on parched earth.
Vyan was ten years old, lying with his head in his mother’s lap.
The sun was filtered through the canopy of the forest, casting dappled gold across them.
His mother’s hands, slender and cool, moved through his hair with a rhythmic, steady grace.
She was majestically beautiful—a face that seemed carved from moonlight, with eyes so intense they felt as though they could see the threads of fate itself.
“Vyan,” she said, her voice like a low-tuned flute.
“You will be eleven years old this week. Do you remember what I told you? That you must leave this place when you turn twelve ? You have always asked me why.”
Vyan had spent years being angry at that requirement, feeling rejected by the only person he knew.
He sat up, looking into those piercing eyes.
“You’re finally going to tell me, Mother?”
“Yes,” she said, her expression unchanging, as calm as a frozen lake.
“I will be dying a week after your birthday. There will be no one left to take care of you, Vyan. That is why I ask this of you. It is also right to give…”
Vyan didn’t let her finish.
A sob broke from his throat, tears blurring his vision.
“Die? No! Why would you say that? I won’t let you!”
“Vyan,” she said, her voice sharpening but not softening.
“I have told you before: do not be attached to anything or anyone. Not even me. I have fulfilled my role as your mother. I must take care of you, protect you, and guide you—but I do not love you in the way you crave. I do not permit my heart to be bound.”
“How can you say that? You’re my mother!”
“Why do you cry, Vyan? Why do you let the idea of my ‘love’ dictate your emotions?” She reached out, not with a mother’s warmth, but with a teacher’s firmness, tilting his chin up.
“Remember this: you do not need anyone to tell you what you can or cannot do. My son, never let anyone dictate your soul—not even your loved ones.”
She looked toward the sky, her gaze piercing the clouds.
“I casted a spell on us long ago,” she whispered.
“A veil to hide us from every powerful force in this world. Ever since your father died, we have been hunted. They sought me because they feared I was an Asura, or perhaps for reasons even darker. I am merely an insignificant character, only a grade 2 Yogi, Vyan… but above that, I am a devotee of Vashi first.”
She leaned in, her fragrance—that intoxicating mix of jasmine and old parchment—filling his senses.
“I have been unweaving my very spirit, thread by thread, to weave a mask that hides us from the eyes in the sky and the beasts in this forest. But my spirit is nearly spent, Vyan. This spell will stop taking effect shortly after you turn twelve . That is why you must leave. When the mask falls, the world will see you.”