Chapter 4 – Part 1: The Name We Wear

The morning came not with peace, but with a muffled scream.

Darian awoke to his own breath caught in his throat, hand clenched around the pendant at his neck. The remnants of the nightmare still clung to his mind like oil on skin—images of smoke curling through a battlefield, a hand reaching out, and a voice whispering behind the sky: "Let them burn to cleanse their names."

He sat up slowly on the straw mat Ravi had provided, the unfamiliar weight of silence pressing down. Across the dimly lit storeroom-turned-bedroom, Rian and Mira slept huddled together, their small forms rising and falling in steady rhythm. For a moment, Darian simply watched them—proof that they were still alive, still with him.

Still untouched.

The wooden door creaked slightly, and Ravi's silhouette appeared. He didn't speak, just waited.

Darian stood, wiped his face with his sleeve, and followed.

They ate in a narrow kitchen behind the shop. The food was simple—steamed rice, lentils, and a pinch of rock salt. Ravi said little, letting the silence do the talking. Mira clung to Darian's arm; Rian sat across from him, unusually quiet.

Ravi finally cleared his throat.

"I've arranged something," he said, voice low. "To keep you all safe. It's time you had new names."

Darian blinked.

Ravi continued, "A friend of mine—before he passed—was a merchant from Central India. No family left, but a reputation clean enough to wear like a second skin. You'll become his children, here to expand the family trade and learn the ways of the border provinces."

He pushed a scroll across the table. It bore three names written in elegant, Central-style ink strokes:

Devran, Meera, and Rivan Thakur.

Darian stared at the names. It felt strange, to see his life rewritten in such delicate curves.

Ravi's gaze met his. "Names are like masks. Sometimes, we must wear one to survive the fire."

Later that morning, they stepped out into the city.

Elarin's market was more alive than Darian remembered. Incense drifted through the alleyways, sweet and spicy, mixing with the scent of roasting lentils and sharp soapstone. Caste marks shone on foreheads like warnings. Every hand gesture, every greeting was layered with subtle hierarchies.

They walked behind Ravi, who led them through side streets to avoid the central bazaar.

"Too many eyes," he muttered.

At one corner, they passed a vendor with ivory bangles, who nodded at Ravi—only to withdraw his hand when he realized Ravi bore no sacred thread. The gesture was subtle, but sharp as a blade.

Rian noticed. "Why didn't he shake your hand?"

Ravi smiled thinly. "Because I remind him of a truth he doesn't want to see—that a Shudra can walk in silk and gold and still be treated like dirt."

Darian didn't reply. But the bitterness in Ravi's voice lingered in the air, like incense that had gone sour.

The registry house was carved from black basalt, cool and shadowed inside. A single clerk sat behind the stone desk, his caste thread looped twice around his neck. He eyed Ravi warily but said nothing when the merchant placed a velvet pouch on the table.

"Three children," Ravi said, "from the Thakur line. Here to establish presence in the Northern provinces."

The clerk untied the pouch, weighed the silver within, and nodded. "It shall be done."

He asked no questions. That was the price of survival—silver, and silence.

Darian watched as their old selves were quietly buried beneath ink and ritual. The clerk poured saffron water into a bronze bowl and marked their foreheads with turmeric ash.

"Devran Thakur," he intoned. "Born of lineage forgotten by time, now written anew."

When it was done, Ravi handed Darian a folded piece of parchment. "Keep it hidden. That name may save you one day, or ruin you."

As they stepped outside, a noble merchant passed by in a litter carried by four laborers. His eyes fell on Ravi.

He called out, voice loud enough for the nearby vendors to hear: "You again, Ravi the Untouchable? No matter how fine your silk is, the stink of your birth clings like rot."

The silence around them grew tense.

Ravi's eyes did not flinch. "I may stink of effort. But at least I earned my salt, Devendra."

The noble merchant scoffed and turned away. His litter swayed off down the road.

Rian clenched his fists. "He can't talk to you like that!"

Ravi only smiled, bitter and calm. "He can. Because his ancestors bathed in lotus milk while mine dug their drains. That's the world."

Darian said nothing. But he watched Ravi closely now—not just the man, but the silence behind his smile. There was more power in Ravi than his soft voice revealed. Not the strength of swords or gods—but the strength of someone who had survived every fire thrown at him and come out dressed in gold.

And for the first time… Darian wondered what price that survival had truly cost him.