Avinash stepped carefully through the threshold of the cottage, the newborn cradled in his arms. The morning sun fell in long streaks across the floorboards, illuminating the worn wood and the flickering shadows. The Reevavanshis who had braved the storm gathered behind him, their faces alight with awe and relief. Whispers rippled through the room—some trembling, some jubilant.
"She… she is here," murmured one elder, voice trembling with reverence. "The chosen one,the light bearer… the Rivanshi…"
A wave of cautious joy swept through the clan. After centuries of battles, after countless sacrifices and bloodlines lost, the Reevavanshis finally held hope in their hands. This child, fragile yet radiant, was more than a newborn—she was a beacon, a promise that the Daayan lineage could one day be broken.
Avinash knelt and gently handed the child to Divya. Her hands shook as she took her daughter into her arms, tears immediately spilling over her cheeks. "Gudiya… my little gudiya," she whispered, her voice trembling, as if the sound of the words alone could keep her safe. She pressed the child against her heart, feeling the warmth, the faint pulse of life, and the subtle glow of the OM mark on her arm.
The midwives and elders exchanged glances, a shared recognition passing silently between them. This child was no ordinary child; the weight of destiny hung in her tiny body like a living thing.
Then the seer-woman, her white eyes still flickering with residual visions, stepped forward. Her presence demanded silence, and one by one the Reevavanshis began to back away. Avinash's brow furrowed as she gestured sharply.
"Outside. All of you—except the parents and the child," she said, her voice low yet commanding, threaded with authority that refused to be questioned.
The others hesitated for only a moment before obeying, casting cautious glances toward the infant before stepping out into the sunlight, leaving the room hushed and expectant.
The seer's gaze fell upon the child, her hands lifting slightly as if to measure the weight of her fate. Her eyes glazed as she slipped once more into vision, seeing threads of time twist and turn. Shadows of the future danced around the child's small form.
Finally, she spoke, her voice trembling with awe and something akin to fear.
"This child… she carries within her the power to shape destinies. She is not only the light that will burn through centuries of darkness, but… she is bound to a path of choice that will test all she is and all she will become. I have seen it—" she paused, voice dropping to a whisper, almost a hiss that vibrated with the weight of unseen realms.
"She will one day face the son of Mohana, the Daavansh born of darkness and blood. And in that meeting… she will either save him as his soulmate… or destroy him as his enemy. One of the two. One of the fates is certain, but which remains veiled."
Divya's hands trembled as she held the child closer, feeling a chill despite the warmth. Avinash stood stiffly, gripping the edge of the bed. Neither spoke; the gravity of the prophecy pressed upon them like the storm that had raged just hours before.
The seer looked once more at the infant, her voice now softer, almost a murmur:
"Mark her well, guard her carefully. The balance of life and darkness hinges upon her steps, upon the choices she has yet to make, upon the light that is hers to carry."
The room seemed to breathe in silence, the infant stirring slightly, as if sensing the weight of her first lesson in destiny. Outside, the rest of the Reevavanshis awaited, unaware of the profound prophecy now laid upon this tiny, golden-marked child.
Avinash exhaled slowly, his eyes locked on his daughter. "We will keep you safe," he whispered. "Whatever it takes… we will keep you safe."
Divya pressed her cheek to the child's, whispering again, "Gudiya… my little one… the world may tremble, but you will rise."
And in that quiet moment, with the morning sun bathing the room, the future shifted imperceptibly. The child, the Rivanshi, had arrived—and nothing would ever be the same again.
To be continued…