A final cry tore through the cottage—sharp, piercing, alive.
Then silence.
The storm outside faltered, as though the sky itself had paused to listen.
Inside the cottage, one of the midwives gently lifted the newborn into her arms. The child wailed, small fists clenched, her cry slicing through the charged air like a blade of sound. The trembling lamp steadied. The sideways-bent flame straightened.
And then—
The midwife froze.
Beneath the child's fragile skin, on her upper arm, a mark shimmered.
An OM.
Not etched. Not burned. Alive.
It glowed softly at first—warm, golden—then brighter, pulsing once, as though answering an ancient call. The glow radiated faintly along the child's arm before settling back into her skin, leaving behind a mark that looked both timeless and eternal.
Outside, the wind fell silent.
The thunder receded into the distance, its low growl dissolving into nothing. Clouds parted slowly, unveiling a sky washed clean. Rain slackened… then stopped.
For the first time that night, light broke through.
The sun rose.
Its first rays slipped between the trees of Reevavansh, spilling gold across the damp earth, touching the cottage roof, warming the ground where chaos had ruled moments ago.
The midwife staggered back a step, still cradling the child, her breath caught painfully in her throat.
"This…" she whispered. "This cannot be…"
Drawn by something she could neither name nor resist, she stepped outside. The morning light fell upon the newborn's face, and the child's cry softened, as if soothed by the dawn itself.
Then the midwife gasped.
Her pupils vanished.
Her eyes turned completely white.
The other midwives cried out in alarm, but she did not falter. She stood rigid, spine straight, her voice shifting—deep, resonant, layered with echoes that belonged to centuries.
"The darkness that has long stalked the world… the night that hung like a shroud over generations of mortals and immortals alike…" she began slowly, each word deliberate, heavy with portent.
"It has screamed in hunger, it has clawed at the threads of life, yet the dawn has answered. Not the dawn of the sun, not the dawn of fleeting hours, but the dawn of a light that cannot be dimmed. She… she who carries the spark beyond reckoning… she has arrived."
Avinash, who had just reached the clearing, froze, his heart hammering.
"What… what is happening?" he demanded, though even his own voice trembled.
The seer's gaze, white and unseeing, fell upon him—not at him, through him, beyond him.
"She is not born to follow the path of kings, nor to be counted among mortals," the seer intoned, her voice rippling across the still morning.
"She is born to bear the light through centuries of shadow, to carry a fire that has slept since the world's first night. Not to rule, not to reign—but to illuminate the corners of darkness where even the boldest of hearts dare not tread."
Avinash's chest tightened. "Carry… what?"
The seer's lips curved faintly, not with joy, not with fear, but with awe ancient as time.
"The weight of light," she said.
"The spark that burns when all else fails. She is the dawn that rises while shadows linger, the hope that survives the blackest curse. The night may howl… the daayans may prowl… yet she is the light that will endure when all else has fallen into silence."
Her head tilted slightly, listening to some eternal whisper only she could perceive.
"Generations will whisper of her coming," she continued, voice swelling with certainty.
"Bloodlines may tremble, darkness may rise, but she… she is the one whose name shall pierce the ages. When the night refuses to end… when evil daayans strike unseen… she shall walk among the living as light incarnate. She is—"
The newborn's OM (🕉️) mark glimmered once more, faint yet unmistakable.
"Rivanshi."
The word hung in the air like prophecy made flesh.
The seer's eyes slowly returned to their natural color, the white fading as her strength waned. She sank to her knees, the other midwives rushing to steady her.
Avinash remained frozen, staring down at the child. The storm was gone. The sun had risen. And in his arms lay a child whose arrival had bent the night into silence, whose very birth carried the weight of centuries.
Whatever had begun tonight… would not end quietly.
To be continued…