ChaptThe wind howled through the night, carrying whispers of fate across the vast landscape of Mahishmati. The mighty kingdom, once a beacon of strength and prosperity, now stood under the oppressive rule of Bhallaladeva, its once-proud banners fluttering weakly under the weight of tyranny. But far away from the towering palace, amidst the wild embrace of nature, a single life hung in the balance.
Sivagami, the queen regent, stumbled through the dense undergrowth, her body battered but her resolve unshaken. The infant in her arms let out a soft cry, his tiny hands grasping at the air as though sensing the danger that loomed over them.
"Shh, my child," Sivagami whispered, pressing him closer to her chest. Her voice, though filled with exhaustion, carried the strength of a mother determined to defy destiny itself.
Behind her, the sound of approaching hooves sent shivers down her spine. The royal guards were closing in, their torches piercing the darkness like vengeful eyes. The betrayal had come swiftly—one moment, she was the regent of Mahishmati, the next, she was a fugitive, branded a traitor by the very kingdom she had sworn to protect.
The reason? The child in her arms.
This was not just any infant—he was the son of Amarendra Baahubali, the true heir of Mahishmati. And Bhallaladeva, the usurper king, would stop at nothing to see him dead.
Sivagami's heart pounded as she reached the edge of the cliff. Before her, the mighty river stretched like a serpent, its waters swelling with the fury of the monsoon. There was no other way. If she turned back, the boy would be slain. If she hesitated, the kingdom would be lost forever.
A sharp whistle cut through the air—an arrow struck the tree beside her, splintering the bark. The guards were almost upon her.
She turned, her eyes blazing with defiance as the soldiers burst through the clearing. Their leader, a man clad in dark armor, raised his sword.
"Surrender, Sivagami," he commanded. "You cannot escape."
She held her head high. "I do not intend to escape," she declared, stepping backward. "I intend to ensure Mahishmati's future."
And with that, she leaped.
The cold embrace of the river swallowed her whole. The child, wrapped tightly in her arms, remained above the surface as she fought against the violent current. Waves crashed around them, the storm raging like the wrath of the gods themselves.
But even Sivagami's strength had its limits. The journey, the wounds, the betrayal—they all weighed upon her, dragging her deeper into the abyss. She gasped for breath, her vision blurring as she felt the life slipping from her body.
Yet, even in her final moments, she refused to let go.
With the last ounce of her strength, she thrust the child upward, placing him upon a piece of driftwood before the river could claim her completely.
As the water pulled her under, her lips moved in a silent prayer.
"This child... will return... and Mahishmati... will rise again."
The river roared, the storm howled, and in the midst of it all, the infant floated onward—toward his destiny.
The Village Below the Falls
The storm passed with the coming dawn, leaving the river swollen but calm. The village of the mountain tribe lay nestled at the foot of the great waterfall, untouched by the war that raged beyond its borders. The people here lived simple lives, far removed from the struggles of kings and conquerors.
It was here that an elderly woman, Sanga, found the child.
She had ventured to the riverbank with her husband in search of fresh water when she spotted the bundle caught among the reeds.
"A baby!" she gasped, rushing forward.
Her husband, an old but sturdy man named Lakshman, followed cautiously. "Careful, Sanga. It could be—"
But the moment she lifted the child into her arms, all doubts vanished. His eyes, deep as the ocean, stared back at her. There was something about him—an unspoken power, an unyielding presence.
"This is no ordinary child," Sanga whispered.
Lakshman studied the infant. He had never seen a boy so silent, so watchful, as though he understood the very forces that had conspired to bring him here.
"Then perhaps it is fate that brought him to us," he said finally.
And so, with no knowledge of the destiny that awaited him, the child was taken into their home, given the name Shivudu, and raised as one of their own.
But even the walls of the village could not contain the storm that would one day return for him.
For Mahishmati's true king had been born anew.