Beneath the ruined mountains of the west, where even the gods no longer looked, something stirred.
Not a god.
Not a demon.
Not a man.
A will.
Older than the heavens.
Buried deeper than the roots of time.
They once called it Agnimaas — the Flame That Would Not Bow.
When the old gods rose, Agnimaas did not kneel. When they built temples, it burned the steps. When they demanded worship, it demanded truth.
So they erased it.
Buried it in a pit of silence.
Chained it in ash.
And still… it breathed.
Now, as faith fades, and mortals remember their strength, the air around its tomb begins to ripple.
The gods sense it—but say nothing.
Because even they are afraid of the one thing they could never control:
Fire without fear.
In Shraddhalok, Aarav woke in the middle of the night.
No dreams.
No visions.
Just heat in his bones.
The kind that comes not from anger…
…but from alignment.
The kind that says:
"Something ancient remembers your name."