The bus came to a slow, sighing halt at Sikar station, its brakes hissing like a tired beast finally resting. The doors creaked open, and Arman and his friends stepped out into the dry afternoon heat. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the bustling streets. Dust danced lazily in the air, kicked up by impatient autos and the occasional cart rolling by.
Arman adjusted the strap of his bag as his shoes met the familiar cracked pavement. He took a deep breath—the scent of hot concrete, fried snacks from a nearby stall, and something distinctly home hit his senses all at once.
"Finally," Zubair muttered behind him, stretching until his back popped. "Feels like we've been on that bus for a year."
Meera, still holding Aayesha's hand, looked up at her with a pout. "Sis… when will we meet again?"
Her voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the honking horns and distant chatter of the station. Aayesha opened her mouth, but her words were interrupted by Kajal's chipper voice.
"Oh, don't be sad!" she said to Meera, stepping between them. "We live near Chandpole Gate," she added, turning to Aayesha. "You can come visit anytime!"
Then she pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, scribbled something with a blue pen, and handed it to Aayesha.
"Here—my number."
Aayesha smiled faintly, brushing back a lock of hair that had stuck to her cheek. "Thanks. I'll visit sometime… promise."
With that, Meera, and her parents loaded their luggage into a waiting taxi. The car pulled away with a puff of exhaust and the low rumble of tires against broken road.
Zubair let out a breath. "Well, guys… back to reality."
Everyone exchanged a few parting words, a mix of hugs and tired nods. One by one, they melted into the streets of Sikar, disappearing into the familiar folds of their lives.
Arman's House
The iron gate let out a faint squeal as Arman pushed it open. His house stood quietly, painted in warm tones dulled slightly by time and dust. A crow cawed from the rooftop and fluttered away as Arman stepped onto the veranda.
He kicked off his shoes and opened the front door. "I'm home!"
From the kitchen, the sound of something sizzling was followed by his mother's voice. "Oh, Arman? You're back already? What happened?"
Arman dropped his bag near the shoe rack and walked toward the kitchen, the smell of turmeric and cumin greeting him like an old friend. "Nothing much. Aayesha wasn't feeling great, so we cut the trip short."
"Is she alright now?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly in concern.
"She's fine. Don't worry, Mom." He smiled, brushing dust off his jeans.
"Where's Dad?"
"He should be home any minute," she replied, wiping her hands on her apron and returning to stirring the pot on the stove.
Just then, the front door creaked again, followed by heavy footsteps and the rustle of paper bags. Rafiq entered, arms overloaded with groceries, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
"Whoa," Arman said, eyeing the pile. "That's a lot, Dad."
Rafiq paused, his brows knitting as he stared at Arman. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you… and what are you doing in my house?"
Arman blinked. "Seriously? It's me. Arman."
Rafiq squinted closer, then leaned in, frowning. After a long pause, his face slackened with realization. "Wait a minute… it is you. What the hell?! You grew taller in just two days?!"
Arman rubbed the back of his neck, offering a sheepish smile. "I've always been this tall. Maybe you never noticed."
Rafiq muttered, "Hmph… maybe." He shuffled into the kitchen. "Anyway, we're having matar paneer tonight."
"Nice," Arman said, already heading toward his room.
He flopped onto his bed, the mattress squeaking slightly under his weight. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling fan, spinning slow and steady. The familiar hum of life returned around him, but inside his chest, things felt different.
"Only two days," he murmured. "But it feels like I was gone for… months." But he then mumbled, "Well, technically… I was."
And then a voice echoed in his mind, deep and calm, yet edged with weight.
"Now listen, kid."
It was Ievon.
"You've got power now. But with it comes duty. You need to protect this place—and the people in it. It's your responsibility."
Before he could respond, his mother's voice rang from downstairs.
"Arman! Dinner's ready!"
"Coming, Mom!" he shouted back, shaking off the lingering thoughts.
Later That Night…
The house was silent now, save for the rhythmic creak of wood from the living room. Rafiq sat in his old rocking chair, a blanket over his legs, his fingers steepled in thought. The chair creaked softly beneath him.
Creak… creak… creak…
Rahmat sat beside him on the divan, her face lit only by the low glow of a nearby lamp. Neither of them spoke for a long while.
Then, Rafiq's voice broke the silence.
"So… he's become that now."
Rahmat stiffened. "Then they'll come, won't they?"
He nodded slowly, the shadows on his face deepening.
"They'll come. Sooner or later."
"What do we do, Rafiq?"
His fingers tightened around the armrests of the chair.
"Nothing. He has to walk this path himself. There's no avoiding it. But…"
He stopped, his eyes narrowing sharply.
"…if they try to hurt him…"
His voice was low, dangerous.
"…I'll destroy them all."
Suddenly, he froze.
Rahmat noticed it too. A shift in the air.
"They're here," she whispered.
Rafiq's eyes didn't move from the space in front of him. "Let them do what they came for. They won't harm him… not yet."
In Arman's Room
The night was still. The only sound was the whirr of the fan and the distant bark of a stray dog.
Then, the air cracked.
A shimmer spread across the center of Arman's room like a spiderweb splitting glass. A pitch-black rift tore open silently—no sound, just absence. A chilling breeze seeped through the tear, laced with energy that made the hair on Arman's arms rise.
"Kid! Wake up! Someone's here!"
Ievon's voice roared in his mind.
Arman's eyes flew open. He sat up, heart thudding in his chest.
From the black void, a woman stepped out.
She moved with confidence, wearing a simple top and fitted trousers that showed off her toned, athletic frame. Her presence was commanding—beauty that was sharp-edged and watchful, like a predator studying prey.
Behind her came a boy, about Arman's age. His face was calm, but his eyes flicked around the room with quiet precision.
The woman glanced at Arman, then turned to the boy behind her. "What's his name again?"
"Arman, ma'am," the boy replied.
"Right," she said, crossing her arms. "Arman."
Her eyes locked with his. There was no malice—just appraisal. Judgment.
"As a new Spiritbound," she said, "you stand at a crossroads."
She took a step forward, and Arman felt the floor thrum slightly beneath her boots.
"Your path begins now. And you need guidance."
She extended her hand, her tone firm but not unkind.
"You're coming with us—to the Order of Aethen."