To Vidyut, it was a journey full of long-forgotten memories. During the northern rebellion crisis, a caravan of refugees from the Damba tribe had taken the same road nine years ago. Before King Shaktidev's men reached the tribal settlement, its chief evacuated as many women and children as he could, including his own nine-year-old son. Vidyut sniveled and whined and flailed, wanting to fight the men with his dagger alongside his father and brother. But his father only patted his head twice with a thin smile and then looked at the old nanny, who gave a wordless nod.
Vidyut remembered the next several days in bits and pieces, his old nanny putting charcoal on his already dark face, covering him in layers of sack, and hiding him in one of the goods wagons. Vidyut loathed himself the entire ride that his father and brother were fighting for his land while he was being shipped off to a city far away. He fell asleep in a flood of tears. When he woke up, it was all over.
