When the Wind Carries Fire and Silence

Long before Bassoon knew war or prophecy, there were whispers of those who walked between sunrises.

Now, they had arrived.

Not with ships, not with rifts—but with wind and mantra.

High atop the sacred cliffs of Sundar Kavana, an ancient forest reborn in Zantrayel, the air shimmered with golden heat as twelve quiet lights descended in perfect alignment. The earth hummed a Vedic rhythm, and the river below reversed its flow for one breath, as if bowing.

From the horizon came the Twelve Adityas—sun-born deities made flesh. They walked barefoot on stone, clothed in dhotis and silk, their skin kissed by firelight, their eyes deep as still water. Their presence neither demanded attention nor avoided it—it simply was, like the sun that rises whether or not it is praised.

At the center walked Indra, thunder in his calm voice, his staff crowned with lightning and lotus. Beside him, Varuna, whose eyes saw truth even in shadow. And Vishnu, soft-spoken, his steps leaving no mark yet changing the shape of the world behind him.

"We come not to command," Vishnu told the wind.

"We come because the balance trembles."

And the wind carried his words to Bassoon.

Behind them, in a line that moved like river smoke, came Eleven Rudras—divine aspects of destruction and change.

Their presence was less golden and more thundercloud—storm gods in ascetic form, garlanded in ash, tridents strapped to their backs. Their leader, Trayambaka, wore a smile that held both kindness and extinction.

The Rudras spoke little. But when they prayed, the trees bent to listen.

Arrival at Zantrayel

When the gods entered the city, they did not do so with ceremony. They asked no audience of Zion, demanded no land, and carried no banners. They built no temples, only cleared a grove near the eastern river and sat in a circle to meditate.

Zion was notified by a farmer who passed by them and felt his heart calm for the first time in years.

"They just… sat," the man said, bewildered. "They asked if I needed help with my ox."

Zion smiled when he heard this.

"Then they are who I hoped they would be."

He came to them not as king, but as a student. And the Adityas rose and bowed to him first.

"You carry weight no man should carry alone," said Savitr, his voice like morning bells.

"We will help you carry it."

And for the first time in weeks, Zion slept that night without dreams of war.

A New Quiet Power

In the days that followed, the Indian emissaries—holy men, women, and scholars—arrived behind their gods. Unlike others, they asked no place at the table. Instead, they offered lessons in healing, astronomy, and peacekeeping. They walked into poor villages and built water wheels. They taught children to chant and farmers to track the monsoon winds.

When asked why they came, a young monk simply said:

"Because your storm is our storm."

Atop the Hill of Sight

And far above, where the five priestesses sometimes gathered to feel the shifts in the world, Ayomi felt the warmth of Vishnu like a distant song.

"The sky is becoming crowded," said Thalia, arms crossed.

"Then we must listen more carefully," Ayomi replied. "For sometimes the gods speak not through thunder—but through silence.