-chapter one-

-The warrior, Vikram-

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Vikram stood in the dust-choked courtyard, the heat of the midday sun pressing down on him. His small, frail body felt the weight of the world as his bare feet shifted on the parched earth, waiting. He was always waiting—waiting for something to change, waiting for something to finally give him a place. But there was nothing, not really.

At just four years old, he already knew the taste of bitterness. His parents had never been the kind of people to garner much love or respect. Vikram's memories of his parents were few, but the ones that lingered in the shadows of his heart were stained with shame. He didn't remember much about his father's face, only fleeting images of a tall man with dark, intense eyes—a man who had never held him with tenderness. Instead, his father had been a figure carved from violence and despair, a shadow that haunted the edges of his short life.

His father was a robber, a criminal who had made his living off the suffering of others. He stole from the poor, the weak, and the vulnerable, all to feed his own greed. Vikram's mother, a woman who had once known dreams of love and a peaceful life, had been swept into his father's world of crime. They had met before marriage, a union born of impulsive desire, and it was said she had been taken by his father's charm, or perhaps his promises of a life they could never truly have. They had both been naive, lost in their own ways. Her name was rarely spoken aloud, but Vikram could feel the weight of it every time he was reminded of her poor choices.

When his mother became pregnant with him, her world began to fall apart.

The shame of bearing a child out of wedlock had pushed her deeper into the suffocating grip of regret. Yet, in the dim confines of their small, neglected home, she tried to love him. But there was no love in the way she held him, no softness in her tired hands. She saw him as a reminder of her mistakes, the consequences of the affair she had once been too blind to refuse.

Vikram's memories of her were tinged with distance. She would look at him sometimes with a sad, empty gaze, as though he were a burden too heavy for her shoulders to bear. When she did hold him, it was only to comfort herself, not to nurture him. Her heart was lost to sorrow, and he, a helpless infant, was left to try and fill a void that could never be filled.

His father disappeared long before Vikram could form lasting memories of him, vanishing without so much as a trace. It was said that he was caught in a robbery gone wrong and was never seen again. Some whispered he had been killed, while others believed he simply abandoned his family to start anew.

Either way, Vikram's father had never returned, and his mother—who had already been broken by life's cruelty—was left to fend for herself in a world that seemed to hold nothing but disdain for her choices.

In the end, his mother couldn't bear to raise him alone. Her shame consumed her, and the whispers about her past, about Vikram's birth, pushed her further into the shadows of society. When he was just a toddler, barely able to walk, his mother disappeared without a word. It was said that she had gone to a distant place to escape the mocking stares of their neighbors, but no one ever heard from her again.

That was when his distant family came into the picture.

They had taken him in—their faces like stone, their eyes cold. He was a burden, an orphan raised in the shadows of his family's shame.

They saw him as nothing more than the product of a mistake, a stain on their lineage that could never be erased. His father's criminal actions had stained his name, and his mother's indiscretions had made sure that no one would ever treat him as one of their own. He was a boy unwanted, unloved, and pushed aside.

They made it clear from the start that Vikram's existence was a matter of duty, not choice. He was taken in not out of familial affection, but because the shame of his birth required that someone bear the burden of his presence.

The first few years of his life were marked by neglect. He had been placed in the care of distant cousins who treated him with indifference, never offering him more than the barest essentials. There was no room for affection or tenderness in their house. He was to serve, to help with chores, to do whatever they demanded. He was an orphan, and the only thing that mattered was that he could work.

The name Vikram was hardly spoken in that household, and when it was, it was accompanied by the occasional sneer, the mocking undertones of someone who knew he didn't belong. He was a servant in his own home, and his only worth was in what he could contribute.

But it wasn't the hard labor or the neglect that scarred him the most. It was the way they spoke of him, the whispers in the corners of the room when they thought he couldn't hear.

"He's the product of shame," they would say.

"He'll never amount to anything."

"You're just a burden," his aunt would murmur, her voice thick with disdain.

Vikram learned quickly that he didn't matter. His existence was an inconvenience, something that didn't deserve kindness, affection, or even a soft word. He was a stain on their family name, a reminder of his mother's poor choices and his father's criminal past. The love he once might have hoped for was a distant dream that slipped further and further away as he grew older.

When he was five, his cousin Arjan, who was a few years older, began to mock him relentlessly. Arjan had heard the stories—how Vikram's father was a robber, how Vikram's mother had borne him out of wedlock. And so, he would take every opportunity to remind Vikram of his place.

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One afternoon, Vikram was standing alone in the courtyard, his body aching from the endless chores and his heart heavy with the weight of his past. That's when Arjan found him. The older boy sneered as he approached, a cruel glint in his eyes

"Vikram," his cousin's voice rang out, sharp and mocking, "You're just like them, aren't you?"

Vikram's heart sank before his cousin, Arjan, even stepped into view. Arjan was older, stronger, and always the first to remind him of his place. Arjan had been told that Vikram was a curse, a legacy of failure that needed to be dealt with. And today, like so many others, Arjan was ready to make sure that Vikram knew exactly where he stood.

Vikram lowered his gaze, staring at the ground as his cousin approached. He wanted to scream, to shout, to defend himself, but he didn't. His legs trembled, his small fists clenched, but he stayed silent. His uncle's warnings rang in his head: "Don't fight back. It's not your place."

But the silence only fueled Arjan's cruelty. With a laugh, Arjan shoved Vikram roughly to the ground, sending dust flying into his eyes.

"Look at you," Arjan spat, pressing his boot against Vikram's chest, pinning him down. "Nothing but a disgrace. You're nothing more than a stain that can never be wiped away."

Tears welled up in Vikram's eyes, but he didn't cry. Crying only made it worse. He had learned that quickly. His heart raced, a mix of shame and helplessness flooding through him, but there was nothing he could do. Arjan towered over him, a reflection of everything he was never meant to be—strong, loved, valued.

"I'm not like them," Vikram whispered, though the words barely escaped his lips. It was a lie he had to tell himself to survive.

Arjan's laughter grew louder, mocking the fragile defiance in Vikram's voice. "You'll never be anything but a servant, a nobody. You don't belong in this house. You're just here because you have no other choice." He leaned down, bringing his face close to Vikram's ear. "You'll always be weak. Always be disgusting. Nothing will ever change that."

Vikram's body shook, not from the cold, but from the fear that had burrowed deep inside him like an unwanted parasite. He wanted to escape, to run far away from Arjan, from the bitter taste of his family's shame, but he couldn't. His feet were frozen to the earth, his small body rendered useless by the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Arjan's boot lifted, and Vikram slowly pushed himself up, brushing the dirt from his clothes. He didn't dare look his cousin in the eye. His head was low, and his heart was heavy with the understanding that, in this world, he would always be less than others.

"Don't forget your place," Arjan sneered, backing away, but not without one final shove. "Weakling."

Vikram stood there in the heat, alone, his body aching from the violence. He knew his family would never come to his defense. They never did. They saw him only as the result of his parents' mistakes, and nothing more. It was his burden to bear, the mark of shame that he could never wash away, no matter how hard he tried.

He turned his gaze to the sky, the sun a bright, unfeeling eye above him. It would not care about his pain, nor would anyone else. There was only him, alone in the world, waiting for something—anything—to change.