As rain streamed down the palace walls, the air around the grand gates grew thick with tension.
The towering doors loomed ahead—unyielding, cold, absolute.
Soaked to the bone, Dhruva approached them slowly, his small body trembling from the cold and exhaustion. Each step felt heavier than the last, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears as if warning him how close he was to something far beyond his place in the world.
Two soldiers stood guard before the gates, their stances rigid and unwelcoming. Armor gleamed faintly beneath the rain, and their sharp eyes tracked the boy's every movement with suspicion.
Dhruva had almost reached the threshold—
when a harsh voice cut through the rain-soaked air.
"Hey, boy!" the guard barked.
Dhruva froze mid-step.
"Who are you?" the soldier demanded, his tone rough and unforgiving.
"And how dare you come to the palace gates?"
Dhruva's hands began to shake uncontrollably. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet the man's gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was soft—but carried the weight of desperation.
"Please…" Dhruva said, his words trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Please let me meet the Maharaj. I need his help."
The rain ran down his face, blurring the line between water and tears.
"My mother is very sick," he continued earnestly.
"We have nowhere to go. I beg you… please."
The second soldier stepped forward, narrowing his eyes as recognition dawned.
"Wait," he said sharply, accusation hardening his voice.
"Aren't you the same boy who stole from the shop? The one who humiliated Commander Bhanuraj by knocking him into filth?"
He took a step closer, rain dripping from his helmet.
"Have you come to steal from the palace now?"
Dhruva's voice broke completely.
His legs gave way, and he dropped to his knees before the gates, rain and tears streaming freely down his face.
"No… no, soldier," Dhruva pleaded desperately.
"It's not like that. I did it only to save my mother. Please, show mercy."
He pressed his palms together, bowing his head.
"I only want to meet the Maharaj. That's all I ask."
Sikar studied the boy in silence.
For a long moment, his expression remained hard—then, slowly, he exhaled. The edge in his eyes softened, just a little.
"Alright," Sikar said at last, reluctantly.
"Stay here. I will inform the Maharaj."
He turned toward the gates.
"If he agrees," he added over his shoulder,
"then—and only then—I'll let you enter."
Moments later, Sikar reached the inner corridors of the palace. The sound of his boots echoed against the polished stone floors as he approached the royal chambers.
Stopping before the entrance, he bowed his head respectfully.
"Victory to you, Maharaj."
King Virendra turned his gaze toward the soldier standing outside his chambers, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.
"Speak," the king said calmly.
"What brings you here?"
Sikar straightened, maintaining his respectful posture.
"Maharaj," he said,
"there is a boy at the palace gates requesting an audience with you."
At those words, something stirred quietly within King Virendra.
A subtle satisfaction flickered in his eyes—but he masked it instantly, his expression returning to composed neutrality.
"Very well," the king replied evenly.
"Send the boy in."
Sikar bowed once more and departed at once.
He moved swiftly back through the palace corridors, relaying the king's command to the guards at the gate. The heavy doors were unsealed, and for the first time, Dhruva was allowed to step beyond the threshold.
Escorted by the guards, Dhruva entered the palace.
The world around him transformed with every step—towering pillars, echoing halls, and walls that whispered of power and history. His bare feet felt small against the vastness of the royal floors as he followed the soldier toward the king's chambers.
Dhruva's hesitant footsteps echoed softly through the grand hall of the palace.
Golden-plated walls rose high around him, adorned with intricate tapestries that told stories older than memory itself. Above, massive chandeliers shimmered, their light reflecting off the polished marble floor beneath his bare feet. The cold stone sent a shiver through him—not from chill, but from awe.
His wide eyes took in the splendor around him.
This world of gold, silk, and power stood in cruel contrast to the hardship he had known—rain-soaked streets, closed doors, and endless rejection. With every step deeper into the palace, Dhruva's sense of wonder only grew.
He stared at the ornate carvings etched in gold, the silk curtains swaying gently in the air, and the delicate murals lining the walls—each one depicting ancient wars, fallen heroes, and long-forgotten victories. The palace did not merely house power; it remembered it.
At last, Dhruva reached the threshold of the king's chamber.
The towering doors stood before him, carved with majestic lions and radiant suns—symbols of strength and sovereignty. He hesitated, his heart racing, then gathered what little courage he had left and stepped forward.
"Victory to you, Maharaj," Dhruva said softly, his voice respectful and shy.
Inside, King Virendra sat upon a grand chair, draped in royal garments that spoke of authority and lineage. His gaze fell upon the small figure standing uncertainly at the doorway.
For a moment, the king studied him.
Then his expression softened.
"Son," King Virendra said gently,
"why are you standing outside? Come in."
Warmth in the king's voice tightened Dhruva's chest.
His eyes welled up before he could stop them, and he stepped forward slowly, his small shoulders trembling. King Virendra noticed the tears immediately and leaned toward him, concern softening his regal bearing.
"Son," the king asked gently,
"why are you crying?"
Dhruva hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but his voice still quivered when he spoke.
"Forgive me, Maharaj," he said respectfully.
"I couldn't stop my tears. For many days now, wherever my mother and I have gone, we've only been met with insults and rejection. But today… when you called me son…"
His voice broke for a moment.
"…my heart couldn't bear it."
King Virendra listened quietly, his expression growing more compassionate by the second.
"That's alright," the king said kindly.
"Wipe your tears. Now tell me—what is it that brought you to me? What do you seek?"
Dhruva hesitated, swallowing hard. When he spoke again, his voice trembled—but there was resolve in it.
"Maharaj," he pleaded,
"please show mercy and give us some food. My mother and I haven't eaten for days. I can endure hunger… but my mother is very unwell. If she remains hungry any longer, I fear that—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Something shifted in King Virendra's eyes.
The hardness of a ruler faded, replaced by the instinct of a guardian. He nodded slowly before speaking again.
"If that is so, child," the king said reassuringly,
"then we will help you. You have my word."
He paused, studying the boy before him.
"But first," King Virendra added gently,
"tell me your name."
Dhruva's voice wavered—uncertain, yet honest to its core.
"My name…" he said softly, gathering courage,
"my name is Dhruva Devnarayana."
For a fleeting moment, something stirred across King Virendra's face—a spark of recognition, sharp and unmistakable. But just as quickly, the king concealed it behind the calm mask of a ruler and continued, his tone shifting into one of quiet wisdom.
"Listen carefully, Dhruva," the king said, his voice measured and thoughtful.
"What I am about to tell you may not sound pleasant—but it is the truth of life itself."
Dhruva lifted his eyes, attentive.
"You saw this very morning," King Virendra went on,
"when you asked the shopkeeper for food, he asked for something in return. From that moment, you must have understood this much—nothing in this world comes without a price. Every single thing has a value attached to it."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Dhruva?"
"Yes, Maharaj," Dhruva replied respectfully, his voice steady despite the weight of the lesson.
The king nodded slowly.
"As I was saying," King Virendra continued,
"in this world, to gain something, one must give something in return. That exchange is what maintains balance—what keeps the world from collapsing into chaos."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Dhruva's.
"I could promise you this very moment," the king said calmly,
"that I will erase all your suffering. I could give you and your mother rooms within this palace. I could ensure that none of your wishes ever go unfulfilled again."
Dhruva's breath caught.
"But," the king added, his voice firm now,
"can you give me something in return—something equal in weight to all that I am offering you?"
Dhruva lowered his gaze to his small, trembling hands before speaking—his voice quiet, yet unwavering with honesty.
"I have nothing to give you, Maharaj," he said softly,
"except two things."
He looked up then, meeting the king's eyes.
"The first is my prayers—for your well-being and for this kingdom.
And the second… is my life."
His voice did not shake.
"That is all I possess. I have nothing more to offer."
King Virendra listened in silence, studying the boy before him. A faint smile curved his lips—not one of amusement, but of recognition. When he finally spoke, his voice carried warmth and reassurance, cutting gently through the stillness.
"And what if I told you," the king said slowly,
"that you already possess something equal in value to everything I have promised you?
Something you can give me in return."
Dhruva's head lifted at once.
His eyes widened—curiosity and fragile hope shining through the exhaustion and fear. Without hesitation, he straightened, resolve settling into his small frame like armor.
"Yes, Maharaj," Dhruva replied firmly.
"If I truly have something you can take from me… then I will give it to you."
The king's smile deepened—deliberate, knowing.
Silence once again filled the chamber.
King Virendra rose slowly from his throne.
The faint echo of his footsteps followed him as he crossed the chamber and stopped before Dhruva. Standing so close now, the difference between them was stark—one a ruler shaped by power and foresight, the other a child worn by suffering yet unbroken in spirit.
A gentle smile touched the king's lips, but there was gravity behind it.
"Think carefully, Dhruva," Maharaj Virendra said, his voice calm yet profound.
"Because what I am about to ask of you today… has the power to redraw the very lines of your life."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
"You may choose the life you know—the present, simple, uncertain as it is.
Or you may choose a path where you gain everything you desire… but at a cost far greater than comfort."
His eyes searched Dhruva's face.
"So tell me," the king continued softly,
"are you prepared to give me what I am about to ask?"
Dhruva did not look away.
Despite his youth, despite the fear and exhaustion that still clung to him, his spine straightened. His answer came without hesitation.
"Yes, Maharaj."
The king's expression hardened—not with cruelty, but with resolve.
"Then hear me," Maharaj Virendra said firmly.
"What I ask of you is a vow."
He leaned slightly forward, his voice lowering, becoming almost sacred.
"Will you swear to become the protector of my family and my empire?
Will you stand as its shield—against every danger, every force that dares to bring harm upon Chandrapur?
Tell me, Dhruva… will you become its Rakshak (Protector)?"
Dhruva's small hands clenched into fists.
The gravity of the moment etched itself across his young face. This was no longer about food, shelter, or survival. This was about purpose.
He drew a deep breath.
When he spoke again, his voice trembled—not with fear, but with emotion.
"This vow," Dhruva said softly,
"is nothing compared to my mother's life, Maharaj."
He lifted his head higher, eyes burning with newfound determination.
"I, Dhruva Devnarayana," he declared,
"take this oath before the world itself as my witness. From this moment… until my final breath, I will remain the protector of this empire. I will defend it, no matter the cost."
The very moment Dhruva spoke those words, the heavens answered.
Lightning tore through the sky, its blinding brilliance illuminating the entire empire in a single, breathtaking flash. The earth trembled beneath the force of nature's acceptance—as if the world itself had acknowledged the vow that had just been made.
Far away, atop the Vindhya mountains, lightning struck a lone cave with violent fury. Stone shattered. Dust and fragments burst outward as the cavern was bathed in searing white light—revealing the grave, unmoving figure of Baba Bhairav.
His eyes widened.
His voice thundered through the cave, echoing like a proclamation written into fate itself.
"He has been found," Baba Bhairav roared in awe.
"He has been chosen! Chandrapur has found its Rakshak (Protector) —one whose power will drive the empire toward an entirely new destiny!"
Slowly, the sage closed his eyes.
And a vision seized him—stronger, sharper, more terrifying than ever before.
A battlefield drenched in blood.
At its center stood a lone warrior.
Mountains of lifeless bodies surrounded him—enemies fallen beneath the weight of his unyielding resolve. In both his hands, he gripped swords slick with fresh blood, crimson drops falling steadily to the ground like a grim clock counting down the cost of destiny.
The warrior turned.
And his face was revealed.
Eyes glowing with a dreadful light, they reflected a world caught in a dance of death. Within that gaze burned vengeance, fury, and an unstoppable force—an oath carved so deeply into his soul that even time could not erase it.
Distant screams echoed through the vision, as if rising from the depths of his very being.
Baba Bhairav's voice fell to a whisper—heavy with both fear and reverence.
"This is no ordinary protector," he murmured.
"This is a storm… waiting to be unleashed."