A Stormy Night in Mumbai

Rain pounded against the dimly flickering streetlights of Mumbai, turning the roads into glistening sheets of neon reflections. Kumar gripped his umbrella tightly, its plastic groaning under the force of the wind that howled through the narrow alley. His shoes splashed through murky puddles, the acrid scent of wet garbage mixing with the distant aroma of butter chicken from late-night food vendors.

"Why did the meeting have to run so late?" he muttered, glancing at his cracked phone screen—1:17 AM. A truck's horn blared in the distance, its sound warping eerily in the rain.

"Hey! Watch out—!" A fruit vendor's shout cut through the storm. Kumar turned toward the commotion just as headlights pierced the downpour. In an instant, his world turned upside down. His briefcase flew into the air, papers fluttering like wounded birds. The cold pavement rushed toward him, the sharp kiss of metal against his cheek.

So cold, he thought as crimson pooled beneath him. Since when is Mumbai this cold? Diesel fumes burned his throat. Blurred faces loomed over him, their voices distant and hollow. The rain felt softer now. Warmer.

Above the collapsing skyline, a tiny light flickered. It pulled at him, gentle yet insistent. His final breath swirled into the night, vanishing into the glow.

A New Beginning

Heat. Pressure. Strange, muffled sounds. Arnav's tiny lungs burned as he inhaled his first breath, the air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and woodsmoke. Blurred figures loomed above him—a pale-faced woman with amber eyes, glistening with exhaustion and wonder.

"Look at his eyes, Doran," she whispered, her trembling fingers brushing his cheek. "Like storm clouds hiding lightning."

A deep laugh rumbled nearby. "Quieter than a fawn, Veyra. Think the boy's broken?"

Memories clashed in Arnav's mind—skyscrapers and hunting bows, PowerPoint presentations and crackling hearthfires. His vision sharpened, revealing a thatched ceiling, its beams wrapped in drying herbs. Firelight flickered from a wrought-iron lantern, casting shifting hare-shaped shadows.

He tried to speak, but only a frail wail emerged.

"There it is!" The broad-shouldered man grinned, his beard woven with leather cords. He reached forward, a calloused finger gently poking Arnav's belly. "Welcome to the world, little warrior. Arnav of House Erran, if you please."

The Weight of Memories

Days blurred in the cottage's soft twilight. Swaddled in a moss-green blanket, Arnav studied the world through fresh eyes. Sunlight streamed through hexagonal windowpanes—real glass? In a medieval home?—scattering light over bundles of hanging herbs. Veyra hummed while grinding lavender stalks, the rhythmic crunch of the mortar blending with Doran's whetstone scraping against his hunting knife outside.

Reincarnation. It has to be.

Arnav flexed his tiny fingers, his gaze settling on the crescent-shaped mark on his wrist. Each time Veyra bathed him, the mark shimmered faintly beneath the soapy water.

"Your lullabies are depressing," Doran teased one evening, stomping in through the beaded doorway, frost melting on his fur-lined cloak. "Sing him the Lay of the Frostbearer instead!"

Veyra tossed a dried fig at him. "And give him nightmares of ice giants? Hush, you great oaf."

Arnav stared at the blackened iron lantern above the hearth. Suddenly, its flame flared violet.

Did they see that? But Veyra was busy scolding Doran for tracking in snow, her fingers anxiously twisting a hidden pendant beneath her dress. The flame dimmed back to normal.

Whispers in the Dark

On the seventh night, strangers arrived.

Arnav jolted awake to the creak of floorboards and the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn.

"Born under the Bleeding Star, you said?" A woman's voice—sharp as broken glass. "The mark?"

Doran's reply was a low, dangerous growl. "Our child is no omen. Leave."

Veyra's rocking chair creaked faster. Her scent—chamomile and fear—filled Arnav's nostrils as she clutched him tighter.

"The Guild knows—"

A thud silenced the woman. Doran's voice darkened. "Next time, I won't miss."

The door slammed. Veyra's tears fell hot against Arnav's forehead. "We'll keep you safe," she whispered, her lips trembling against his hair. "No matter what it takes."

Outside, wolves howled in the distant Frostspine Mountains. The crescent mark on Arnav's wrist tingled.