It appeared on his palm after his seventh breath-hold meditation.
A circle. Faint at first, like a bruise. Then darker—etched in skin like it had been burned there by light itself. Around it: eight spokes. Inside it: a tiny flame.
Aarav stared at it in silence.
When Pagal Baba saw it, he dropped to one knee. The madman—always laughing, spitting, dancing in the dust—bowed.
"You carry the seal," he muttered. "The path has chosen you. Not I. Not the gods. The path."
That night, the dreams began again.
A silver tree with burning leaves.
A sky with no stars.
And a throne made of skulls, upon which sat a being made of mantras—alive with the faith of millions, bloated with offerings, but hollow-eyed and trembling.
"You will undo us," it hissed. "You will break the spell."
He woke drenched in sweat. The mark on his palm pulsed with heat. Birds circled his hut. The wind pressed against the walls as if trying to enter.
Even Pagal Baba seemed disturbed.
He handed Aarav a broken rudraksha mala.
"Take this. You'll need it where you're going. The gods have noticed you now. The wrong ones."