- Chapter Two -

-The warrior, Vikram -

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The morning sun cast a harsh glare on the dusty streets of the village as Vikram stepped out of his family's modest hut, clutching a woven basket to his chest. The air was thick with the scent of earth and smoke, mingled with the distant sound of livestock stirring. A feast was to be held that evening—an extravagant affair organized by his distant relatives to impress their neighbors. Vikram, as always, was to handle the preparations, though he would not be allowed to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

His aunt's sharp voice rang out from the kitchen, cutting through the quiet hum of the morning.

"Make sure to get everything—fresh vegetables, spices, the finest rice! And don't you dare come back with anything less, you useless boy!"

"Yes, Aunt," Vikram murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. He had learned long ago not to meet her eyes, as it only invited further scorn. Without another word, he set off toward the market, his bare feet kicking up small clouds of dust with each step.

____

The market was alive with activity. Merchants shouted to advertise their goods, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony. The air was thick with the aroma of ripe fruit, sizzling oil, and freshly ground spices. Brightly colored stalls lined the streets, their wares shimmering in the sunlight.

Vikram carefully navigated the crowd, clutching the few coins his uncle had begrudgingly given him. He moved quickly, fetching the freshest vegetables, the most fragrant spices, and a roll of vibrant fabric for decorations. His fingers brushed over each item with care, ensuring they were of the highest quality.

At one stall, an elderly vendor caught his eye. She smiled warmly, her face lined with years of toil.

"You look like you've had a hard day already," she said, handing him a small bundle of flowers. "Take these. No charge."

Vikram hesitated, his pride warring with his desperation. Finally, he bowed deeply. "Thank you, ma'am."

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Vikram trudged back home, the basket heavy with the weight of his purchases. Despite the ache in his arms, he felt a faint flicker of pride—he had gotten everything on the list, and there was even a little money left over. Perhaps, just this once, his family would offer him a kind word.

_____

That hope was swiftly crushed the moment he stepped through the door. His uncle snatched the basket from his hands, his face twisted in a scowl.

"Useless boy! These flowers are wilting, and the rice isn't good enough. Do you think we're running a charity?"

Vikram bit his lip to keep from protesting. He had done his best, but it was never enough.

"Get to work!" his aunt barked. "Clean the entire house, sweep the courtyard, and hang the decorations. And don't even think about stepping into the kitchen. You'll taint the food with your filth!"

For hours, Vikram scrubbed the floors until his hands were raw, dusted the furniture until his arms ached, and arranged the decorations with trembling fingers. He balanced precariously on a rickety stool to hang a roll of fabric, only for it to tear in his hands.

A gasp escaped him as the sound of the rip echoed in the room. He froze, dread pooling in his stomach.

His aunt's fury was immediate and unrelenting. She stormed into the room, her face red with anger.

"You useless wretch!" she screamed, striking him across the face. "You're not eating for two days! And don't you dare drink a drop of water either!"

Vikram stumbled back, clutching his cheek. His vision blurred with tears, but he refused to cry aloud.

____

When evening fell, the house was transformed. Lanterns cast a warm glow across the courtyard, their light dancing on the polished floors and intricately arranged decorations. The scent of rich curries and roasted meats filled the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and music as the guests arrived.

Vikram hid in the shadows, stomach gnawing with hunger as he watched the festivities from a distance. The children, dressed in fine silks, ran about the courtyard, their laughter sharp and mocking. It wasn't long before they found him.

"There he is!" one of his cousins sneered, pointing at Vikram. "The dirty servant boy!"

The other children joined in, their taunts quickly turning physical. They shoved him against the wall, punched him, and kicked him as he tried to shield himself. His cousin, leading the attack, grabbed a handful of dirt and smeared it across Vikram's face.

"Stay down where you belong!"

Vikram didn't fight back. He knew it would only make things worse. When they finally grew bored and left, he lay on the cold ground, bruised and broken, staring up at the stars that had begun to dot the night sky.

In the distance, he could still hear the sounds of the party—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the music. A world so close, yet so impossibly far away.

For the first time, Vikram let the tears fall. Not for the pain in his body, but for the hollow ache in his heart. He didn't belong here. He never had.

As the night deepened, he curled up in the shadows, invisible to the world, and wished for an escape—any escape—from the life that had been forced upon him. Little did he know, the encounter that would change his fate was just on the horizon.

_____

The house was finally quiet, the laughter of the guests and the clinking of glasses replaced by the heavy snores of his family.

Vikram lay curled up on the cold floor outside the house, his ribs aching from the earlier beating. His stomach churned, gnawed by a hunger so deep it felt like it would consume him. He tried to ignore it, but the thought of food became unbearable, for him and his friend.

He waited until the snores grew louder, then silently crept toward the kitchen. His movements were careful, each step deliberate, as he made his way inside. The faint glow of moonlight

spilled through the window, illuminating the leftover scraps on the table. His heart raced as he reached for a piece of stale bread and a small handful of rice. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to stave off the hunger for one night.

Just as he was about to leave, a loud voice shattered the silence.

"THIEF!"

Vikram froze, the bread clutched tightly in his hand. His uncle stood in the doorway, his face twisted with fury.

"How dare you steal from us, you ungrateful wretch!"

Before Vikram could respond, his uncle's shouts grew louder, waking the entire household. Lights flickered on, doors creaked open, and soon, neighbors began to gather outside the house, drawn by the commotion.

They watched as Vikram stood trembling in the kitchen, his uncle dragging him out by his arm. His thin, battered frame was illuminated under the glow of lanterns, his bruises and cuts on full display. The neighbors murmured among themselves, but none stepped forward.

"He deserves it," one man muttered.

"Ungrateful boy," another whispered.

The crowd dispersed as quickly as it had gathered, leaving Vikram alone once more to face his uncle's wrath.