Kunal sat in the dim glow of his desk lamp, fingers tapping against the wooden surface. Outside, the rain hadn't let up. Its rhythm mirrored the storm in his mind. His conversation with Ananya had only stirred something deeper—curiosity knotted with dread.
He stared at the script on his laptop. Ancient. Formal. Real.
A royal decree.
Issued by Emperor Ashoka.
And there, etched into the lines: the name.
Kunala.
His pulse picked up. This wasn't just a string of coincidences. The man in the library. The dreams. The words. They weren't fragments—they were clues. And they all pointed backward.
A gust of wind slammed the window.
And suddenly, he wasn't in his apartment anymore.
---
The scent of sandalwood hung in the air. Oil lamps flickered against gold-tipped columns. Kunal stood barefoot on polished marble, inside the palace halls of पाटलिपुत्र (Pataliputra). Every breath felt borrowed. The silence broke with whispers—coiled, cutting.
"He's too much like his father."
"His ideals will ruin the balance."
"We act before the Emperor's sight returns."
He turned toward the voices. A cluster of courtiers, faces in shadow.
And then—her.
तिष्यरक्षिता
Tishyarakshita
Stepmother of Kunala and Queen of Ashoka
She stepped forward, her presence slicing through memory and dream like a blade. Their eyes met. For a breath, he saw something strange in hers—regret.
Then it was gone.
And in its place: cold calculation.
She turned away.
And then—
Pain.
Searing. Blinding. Hands grabbing. Darkness swallowing everything. A voice—calm, cruel:
"You will never see again."
---
Kunal jolted awake, breath ragged, shirt damp with sweat. The chair screeched as he pushed away from the desk. His heart thundered in his chest.
Not a dream.
A memory.
His phone buzzed. Ananya's name lit up the screen.
He picked up. "Ananya—"
"Come to the library. Now. I found something."
She didn't wait for a response.
Kunal was already grabbing his coat. The streets of Mumbai blurred as he moved through them—rain, neon, horns, the night alive and chaotic. He barely remembered the train ride to Andheri.
Inside the library, Ananya was already buried in manuscripts.
She looked up, eyes wide. "Look at this."
She slid an old book toward him. Leather-bound, fraying at the edges. He flipped through until his eyes landed on the passage—and stopped.
Kunala, son of Emperor Ashoka, rightful heir to the Mauryan throne, was blinded through treachery. Betrayed by those closest to him, he was exiled. Yet, the heavens wove fate anew, and his soul would not rest until justice was served.
Kunal swallowed hard. "This is it. This is me."
Ananya didn't flinch. She just nodded. "So now we figure out why it's all coming back."
Kunal looked down at the ancient script again. His whole life had felt like floating—no anchor, no direction.
Now?
He had a past clawing its way back.
And it wasn't going to stay buried.
To be continued...