Drona led Onish through the empty corridor, his voice low but firm. "You shouldn't worry so much, Ishit. It's better this way. You don't have to recall those dark days of your life."
The air in the castle felt thick, almost alive, carrying faint whispers that seemed to seep from the stone walls. Drona, Ishit's only cousin, was an apprentice spiritualist, freshly arrived from Taxila. He had flown to Minaak on a borrowed pegasus the moment he heard the miraculous news—his brother had survived the deathly grasp of the white-wives.
Despite the academy's inevitable punishment for his unauthorized leave, Drona didn't care. His brother, the one he had left behind five years ago, was alive, and nothing else mattered.
This morning, a messenger from the Tower of Whispers had roused him with words he couldn't believe. "Your brother has regained his health. No need to worry." The boy had to repeat the message three times before Drona grasped its meaning. His reaction startled the messenger so much that he fled without even collecting his ducats.
Drona had giggled at the fleeing boy but wasted no time packing his belongings and slipping out of the academy. With a cock-and-bull story about an urgent summons, he convinced the Keeper to let him leave, borrowed a pegasus from his friend Vihaan, and soared across the skies to Minaak.
The winged horse descended gracefully before the astonished eyes of the city guards. Drona entrusted the weary creature to the ostler and sprinted to the castle. Amora, the ancient house-anima, informed him that Ishit was dining with their lord uncle and the others.
But when Drona finally saw his brother, he was struck by a chilling realization. The boy who stood before him, with familiar black eyes and faint dimples, looked at him like a stranger. For a moment, Drona wondered if he had mistaken someone else for Ishit. The spirit assured him otherwise—the aura was unmistakably his brother's, though it had grown strangely potent.
Uncle Oman explained the tragic truth: though the malady had spared Ishit's life, it had wiped his memories clean, leaving his mind as blank as an uninscribed bhoj-patra (Himalayan birch leaf). The news was a bittersweet dagger. His brother was alive but unrecognizable. Worse, without his memories, Ishit couldn't join any spirit academy, which only accepted apprentices below fifteen with strong elementary grades. Still, Drona clung to the small miracle. His brother was alive. Anything else could be dealt with later.
Onish, meanwhile, wrestled with his confusion and awe. It had been three years since he'd arrived in this uncanny world, yet he knew so little about it—not even its name. Was this one of the lokas mentioned in the Puranas? Yaksha Loka, Gandharva Loka, or perhaps Patal? The divine powers wielded by children, the whispering trees, and the flight of giant birds all hinted at something beyond mortal realms.
But if this was a realm of gods, then why did his body feel so... ordinary? He had searched every inch of himself for signs of divinity but found nothing beyond unusually enlarged nadis. Whatever strange energy flowed through Drona and others seemed absent in him.
When Drona began explaining the basics of their world, Onish listened with rapt attention. Oman, his father, had wanted to start with the ancestors, but his mother argued that such tales would bore Ishit to death. Instead, they let Onish choose what he wanted to know.
His first question surprised everyone: "What is the name of this world?"
"Mazia," Drona replied.
The word felt strange on Onish's tongue. It wasn't a loka he recognized. Where was he, then? His thoughts churned, but he quickly masked his confusion under a curious smile. The last thing he wanted was to arouse suspicion among these powerful beings.
Instead, he posed another question: "If I'm your son, why don't I have powers? Like when you summoned that royal scroll out of thin air. I can't do anything with a flick of my hand." He demonstrated with an exaggerated gesture, earning a chuckle from Oman.
"Ah, lad, if you keep giving me that look, I'll spank your butt till you recognize me as your father!" Oman laughed heartily, though his eyes glistened with relief and affection. "You've no idea how many nimohis I begged to cure you."
"Oman! Don't you dare frighten him!" Padma scolded, pulling Onish close. "Child, don't be afraid. I'll tell you everything."
Before she could begin, Drona interjected. "Aunt, I can help him. You have guests to attend to."
And so, it was decided. Drona would guide Onish to the library and answer his questions. The walk to the white building took them through winding corridors and moonlit gardens filled with glowing flowers that danced in the gentle night breeze. The sight was so breathtaking that Onish wished he had extra eyes to capture it all.
"Who goes there?" a sharp voice demanded as they reached the marble stairs.
"It's me, Drona. Amora," Drona replied.
The fierce, scarred face of the house-anima materialized on the door, its hawk-like eyes narrowing. "You spiritualists. Barely two hours here, and already back to your books! And you bring the boy?" Amora growled, though his gaze softened as it fell on Onish. "The poor child just got on his feet."
"He wanted to come, Amora," Drona said with a grin. "The boy's lost his memories and needs some 'filling' for his brain."
Amora sighed, his expression tinged with pity. "Poor child. The Spirit can be so cruel." He swung the door open, and the two brothers stepped into the library, its vast halls illuminated by floating orbs of golden light. Shelves stretched endlessly, filled with scrolls and murals that whispered secrets of a world Onish could barely comprehend.
As they delved deeper into the mysteries of Mazia, Drona began explaining the Spirit—an energy unlike anything Onish had ever encountered. It was sentient, Drona said, capable of understanding and responding to commands spoken in its language. This explained the working of spells, the Tower of Whispers, and countless other marvels.
But not everyone agreed. Drona revealed that a man named Ronan of Minaak had once challenged the prevailing theory, proposing instead that the Spirit was a sixth essential element. Onish's mind raced at the name. Could this be the same Ronan Guha had spoken of?
The library's mysteries deepened, but one thing was clear to Onish. This world, with all its wonder and danger, held secrets he was only beginning to uncover.