The earth beneath Vikram's feet trembled, yet his expression remained unshaken. His gaze turned east, where the faintest glimmers of dawn painted the horizon. A subtle smile curved his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.
"Old king," he murmured, his voice carrying across the ancient sanctum, "don't you think 800 years is long enough to let go of hatred?"
Out of the air, as if summoned by those words, appeared an ancient figure. The man's form was frail, his body wrapped in tattered robes, and his face bore the deep lines of centuries of sorrow. His eyes, clouded with age and pain, were fixed on Vikram, reflecting the burden of memories too heavy to forget.
The old man's voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse and cracked, like the echo of a dying fire. "How can one let go of hatred when it was forged in the flames of betrayal and blood?"
Vikram's gaze did not waver. "You speak of betrayal, but isn't your suffering self-inflicted now? Even gods cannot change the past. What happened cannot be undone."
The old man's eyes burned with emotion, and he took a step forward. "You speak so lightly of things you do not understand. My people were slaughtered. My wife... my daughter... butchered before my eyes. The temple desecrated, its walls echoing with the cries of the innocent. Do you know what it is to lose everything?"
Vikram tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I know enough," he said quietly. "But I also know that clinging to the ashes of the past has only left you hollow, old king. It has been eight centuries. Those you loved are long gone. And your hatred has achieved nothing but your own suffering."
The old man's shoulders trembled, his ancient staff shaking in his hand. "You think I wanted this?" he spat. "The Sultanate came like a storm, razing everything in its path. My wife... my beloved queen... she stood by my side until the end. And my daughter, barely twelve, begged me to flee with her. But I stayed, thinking I could protect them. I failed."
His voice cracked, and the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. "When I returned to this temple after the massacre, I found her anklet in the ashes. My daughter's anklet. It was then I swore that I would never let the fire of vengeance die, even if the gods themselves abandoned me."
Vikram's calm gaze softened, though his voice remained firm. "And what did you achieve, old king? The Sultanate is gone, their empires turned to dust like yours. The gods did not abandon you—they simply couldn't save you from the folly of men."
The old man's eyes filled with conflicting emotions—rage, sorrow, and a deep weariness. "You think you know so much, boy. Why restore this temple if even gods are helpless?"
Vikram approached the idol he had restored, his movements deliberate. "Because broken things deserve a chance to stand again," he said, his voice steady. "Even if they don't restore the past, they can shape the future. Isn't that reason enough?"
The old king was silent, staring at the idol. The faint glow from its surface illuminated the lines of his face, and for a moment, he looked like a man lost in time.
Vikram turned to him, his expression filled with empathy. "Let it go," he said softly, his tone carrying both strength and kindness. "You were a king once, a protector of your people. Would your wife or daughter want you to suffer like this? Rest now. Find peace."
The old man's staff fell from his hand, clattering onto the stone floor. His shoulders sagged as if the weight of centuries had finally caught up to him. "Perhaps you're right," he whispered, his voice breaking.
The temple seemed to grow quieter, the tension in the air easing. The old king looked at Vikram one last time, his gaze filled with a bittersweet mix of gratitude and regret. "You remind me of what I once was," he said. "Strong, unwavering. Perhaps you'll succeed where I failed."