Chalukya, a awakener

The Awakener Guild, or the Spirit Shrine of Minaak, stood in the northeastern corner of the city, shrouded in the ethereal glow of holy soma trees. Their silvery leaves swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the nine-story tower. The shrine, a masterpiece of ancient architecture, seemed to defy time, its spires reaching toward the heavens as though in eternal conversation with the divine.

This sanctuary had one singular purpose: to awaken the spirit within chosen individuals. Consequently, it rarely attracted visitors except during Phalguna, the twelfth month of the solar year. During this sacred time, the spirit manifested herself to bless her new children, reminding the citizens of Mazia that awakeners, often dismissed as mundane, held an indispensable role in their world.

Awakeners were sometimes referred to as spirit wielders, though many in Mazia balked at the comparison. Unlike true wielders, who commanded spirit beasts and bent natural forces to their will, the awakeners—known as Dwiza—lacked combat prowess. Their sole gift was the ability to perceive the intricate network of spirit paths woven through the 72,000 nadis in the human body, a talent that was as rare as it was mysterious. Only the twice-born, those who had narrowly escaped the clutches of death, could sense these paths.

Despite their lack of overt power, awakeners were indispensable, sought after by every corner of Mazia. Yet, necessity did not equate to respect. Many viewed the Dwiza as little more than elevated commoners. No one aspired to be an awakener if they had other options.

Take Chalukya, the current chief of the shrine, as an example. He had once fought desperately to escape his fate, but the spirit had other plans. Sixty years ago, he had stood among a hundred hopeful children, brought to the shrine for awakening. While most were chosen to be spirit wielders, Chalukya's destiny took an unexpected turn. Standing before the shrine's statue, a vivid and lifelike representation of the spirit, he had smiled and nodded at the idol, as though greeting an old friend.

Even now, after six decades, Chalukya regretted that moment. The statue's captivating eyes seemed alive, its thin lips trembling as if on the verge of speech. He had thought himself mad back then, a notion reinforced when Old Jataka, the previous chief awakener, called him into the sanctum.

Chalukya had hesitated as Jataka, seated in the lotus position, gestured for him to approach. The elderly man's eyes brimmed with tears as he whispered, "Look into Mother's eyes; she has something to tell you."

With trepidation, Chalukya obeyed. The statue's gorgeous face glistened with pearl-like tears, an impossible sight that sent shivers down his spine. As his gaze locked with the idol's, an excruciating pain stabbed into his eyes, as though his very soul was being unraveled. He cried out, but Jataka held his hands firmly.

"Don't touch them," the old man sobbed. "They aren't yours anymore."

What followed was a maelstrom of sensations. Chalukya's mind reeled as his veins pulsed with fire, and his vision blurred with a kaleidoscope of images—whispers, screams, and echoes of a thousand lives, past and present. Through the chaos, a voice as soft as a mother's lullaby whispered, "O scion of Toshi, accept the curse of the devas and the boon of Mother."

Chalukya had roared in defiance, his anguish echoing through the nine-story tower. When he awoke, Jataka was gone, his crimson robes draped over the idol's outstretched hand. A crooked message scratched onto the sanctum floor read:

"Chalukya, my younger brother, forgive me. Mother forbade me from telling you everything. This is our fate. I am with her now, helping her. Seek the truth when you are ready."

Over the years, Chalukya's eyes had turned to stone, their once-clear depths now clouded with a dense fog. His visions, at first a curse, had gradually become a tool. He no longer needed physical sight to perceive the world. Today, he sat by the shrine's reflecting pool, waiting for a visitor he had foreseen—a boy whose fate was intertwined with Mazia's future.

When Lord Oman and Lady Padma arrived, Chalukya rose to greet them, not out of respect for Oman's title but for the boy who accompanied them. The child's black eyes sparkled with curiosity, oblivious to the ancient power dormant within him.

Chalukya's gravelly voice broke the silence. "I hope Lord will pardon this blind man's audacity not to welcome you at the gate."

Oman, ever formal, replied, "You honor us, venerable Chalukya. Minaak will always uphold the Old Ways."

Padma, her concern for her son evident, interjected. "Revered one, my only wish is for you to see the potential in my son. He carries the blood of Ankha the Great."

Chalukya inclined his head. "The blood of Ankha flows strong, Lady. But the path of a Hara is not one chosen lightly. I promise to do all I can."

As he guided the boy into the sanctum, the air seemed to hum with anticipation. Chalukya, the last seer of Mazia, knew that today marked the beginning of a new age. Whether it heralded the end of the Old Ways or a revival, only time—and the spirit—would reveal.