Chapter 3: The Marked Boy’s Hunger

Chapter 3: The Marked Boy's Hunger

(Hunger is not just of the body, but of the soul.)

The soup was thin, little more than boiled water with flecks of lentils and wilted greens. It barely filled his stomach, but it was enough. Hunger had long since become an old companion, one that he had learned to tolerate rather than fear.

He sat beneath the shade of a dying banyan tree at the outskirts of Surapur, the bowl in his hands. He ate slowly, carefully, savoring each sip—not because it was good, but because it was something.

Once, he had eaten grand meals. Soft, fragrant rice, thick curries rich with ghee, and the sweetness of jaggery melting on his tongue. He could remember the taste, even if he could no longer remember where those meals had come from.

Now, food was survival.

And survival was the only thing that mattered.

The wind carried the scent of the marketplace—spices, sweat, and decay. The sounds of haggling merchants and arguing customers mixed with the occasional cry of a hungry child. The city was alive, but it was a life that fed on itself, consuming whatever scraps of hope remained.

Arin ignored it all.

His mind was elsewhere.

Rishi Agnivarna.

The name had been whispered by travelers, muttered in dying breaths, buried in forgotten prayers. A sage of old wisdom, a man who had once walked among kings and rishis alike, but who had long since retreated into the mountains, where the world could no longer reach him.

Some said he had abandoned the world.

Others said the world had abandoned him.

Either way, if there was knowledge left to be found, if there was a way to understand the path he had unknowingly begun to walk—it lay with this rishi.

As Arin finished the last of his meal, movement caught his eye.

A group of children, thin and ragged, huddled near the remains of a crumbling wall. Their eyes darted between the marketplace and the guards who patrolled its edges.

Thieves.

Orphans, most likely.

One of them, a girl no older than seven, slipped into the crowd. Small hands, quick fingers. She darted toward a distracted fruit-seller, swiping an overripe guava from his stall before vanishing back into the shadows.

The merchant never noticed.

But the guards did.

"Oi!" One of them, a man with a heavy gut and cruel eyes, pointed in their direction. "Thieves!"

The children scattered.

The guards gave chase.

The girl tripped.

The guard reached for his belt, drawing a wooden stick. A punishment, not a death sentence—but in a place like this, punishment could be worse.

Arin stood.

He did not know why.

He did not owe them anything.

He did not care.

And yet, his body moved before his mind could catch up.

The guard raised his stick.

Arin stepped forward, his voice calm but firm.

"She's already scared. No need to beat her."

The guard paused, frowning. "What?"

Arin shrugged. "You think hitting a starving child will stop others from stealing? She'll just run faster next time."

The guard scowled. "You questioning my authority, boy?"

Arin met his gaze, unflinching. "No. Just questioning your intelligence."

A murmur rose from the crowd.

The guard's face darkened. "You little—"

His hand lashed out.

Arin moved.

Not away. Forward.

His hand caught the guard's wrist, twisting just enough to make him stumble. A shift of weight, a subtle step. Not an attack—just a redirection of force.

The guard lost balance and fell backward into a pile of rotting grain sacks.

The crowd laughed.

The girl was gone.

And before the guard could recover, so was Arin.

By the time he reached the city's edge, his heart had steadied, his steps silent once more. The guards wouldn't follow. They were too lazy, too arrogant. He had made them look foolish, but they would forget soon enough.

Surapur was a city that did not remember.

It only consumed.

The mountains loomed in the distance.

He had never been this far before. The road that stretched beyond the city was cracked and uneven, leading toward dense forests that climbed the base of the peaks. Few traveled this way. There was nothing for merchants in the wilderness, and the common folk feared what lay in the unknown.

But Arin was not common folk.

He had no home.

No name.

No past.

And now, he had no reason to stay.

With nothing but the clothes on his back and the hunger that gnawed at his soul, he began walking.

The wind howled through the trees, carrying whispers of things unseen.

The sky, gray and unfeeling, watched him go.

And for the first time in years, he felt as though he was walking toward something—rather than away from it.

End of Chapter 3