In the sacred land, power passed not through bloodlines alone, but through divine selection—a cycle of revolution, rebirth, and rule. The chosen one, the Yehindra, could be male or female, but always marked with fate.
It began when Mother Nature birthed her first and only son. She named him Azrem.
Blessed by the gods of the temple of Azra, the newborn was brought before the high Priestess, she raised her voice to the heavens:
"O great god, we present your child.
Strengthen our faith. Show us the sign that he is destined to bear the power of Azra."
A hush swept through the temple. Then the people whispered in unison:
"Our faith is strong--show us a sign."
At once, the skies stirred. Clouds parted.
Sunlight pierced through, flooding the temple in gold. And yet, a soft rain began to fall--a divine balance of light and water, fire and renewal.
Trembling, the Priestess reached out and touched Azrem's brow.
Where her fingers met his skin, a radiant glow blossomed across his body.
The gathered nobles watched in awe and fell silent, their heads bowed in reverence.
The High Priestess stumbled, not from weakness, but from reverence. Her knees touched the marbled floor of the Temple of Azra, where sunlight still poured through the parting clouds, now mingling with a slow, sacred rain. The Yehindra spirit lingered—its invisible presence moving like wind across skin, stirring the robes of the gathered nobles. Everyone could feel it. Everyone, even the baby.
One of the nobles—older, robed in ochre and gold—stepped forward with the ancient pen. It was unlike anything crafted in this age. Forged centuries ago by monks in trance, it was etched with symbols no longer spoken, carved from the featherbone of the mythic dusk-pheasant. Only used once every Yehindra cycle, the pen had not touched ink nor flesh in nearly two generations.
He carried it with awe toward the ceremonial circle, and placed it at the center, just beneath the swirling essence of the Yehindra spirit. Though unseen, the spirit made its presence known: the flames in the temple did not flicker, yet the air shifted. The scent of wild myrrh and salt filled the chamber. The Yehindra had arrived.
This noble, solemn and calm, was known as the Hesha. He alone could commune with the Yehindra's spirit. His role was sacred: to translate the will of the unseen into a mark—one that would forever bind the child to his purpose.
The Hesha closed his eyes. His breath slowed.
"Guide me," he whispered into the silence. "Reveal to me the shape that must adorn your vessel".
"Let your will become thought, and your thought become form."
No sound replied. But deep within his mind, the vision came—slow and vivid. A symbol, ancient and alive. A form that pulsed with divine symmetry. It was not just an image; it was a calling.
As the Hesha opened his eyes, the other two nobles moved into place. One, draped in deep violet, was called the Seer. His eyes were milky, though he was not blind. He saw the patterns of time—snippets of the Yehindra beholder's future, twisted and fragile. The other noble, taller and broad-shouldered, bore the title Mekan—trainer of the Chosen. His gift was mastery: he could sense and control the flow of energy, teaching restraint where others would crave chaos.
Together, they formed the Triad of Temperance—ancient, undying, and bound by oath to serve the Yehindra until the end of all time.
Over them all stood the High Priestess. Her gaze swept the chamber, proud yet burdened. It was she who had unlocked the gifts within each noble. Though she possessed all three talents—vision, communion, control—her duty was to remain at the edge of destiny, not at its center.
Among the skeptics of Azra, a question often passed in whispers:
"Why would the Priestess train someone who will only train the Chosen?"
They did not understand.
The one called Hindra—mentor to the future Yehindra—was no ordinary "someone." Hindra was born during the eclipse of moons, her first breath drawn under a sky split by lightning. She carried a fragment of Yehindra power, not enough to rule, but enough to shape one who would. In her hands, a vessel could be forged.
Meanwhile, the sacred ink was being prepared.
Drawn only once in a generation, this ink came from a rare squid that surfaced during blue moons along Azra's coasts. Unlike common squid, this one was black and white—its dual color a living testament to Azra's foundational principle: balance in all things.
Capturing it required more than skill. It demanded patience, reverence, and a decade of offerings. Fishermen and mystics camped along the ocean banks for years, feeding the tides with fruit, silk, even whispered prayers. Finally, a young man named Ryder—half-mad from salt and sun—screamed from the water's edge:
"By storm and silence, I've caught the squid!"
The temple records say he wept when he held it. He called it beautiful. Sacred.
In the present, that same ink now shimmered in a crystal vial, resting before the Hesha. He uncorked it slowly. Its scent filled the chamber—earthy, electric. He dipped the ancient pen, and as the ink met the tip, a light-blue flame burst to life. Not fire. Something purer.
The baby, Azrem, squirmed.
The Hesha approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate. In his eyes was no fear—only focus. He knelt beside the child, cradling the pen like a blade meant not to harm but to awaken. Azrem's gaze met his. The baby saw something in the Hesha's eyes—a peace, perhaps, or a promise.
But as the pen neared, Azrem began to stir again. The eyes watching him—the silence around him—felt too much. He let out a soft whimper.
The High Priestess stepped forward. She placed her hand over his heart and whispered,
"Return, spirit of the Yehindra. Soothe the child who bears your light."
The air changed again.
Warmth filled the chamber. Azrem blinked and smiled. Laughter bubbled from him like spring water. His arms reached upward as if into a familiar embrace.
The Yehindra spirit was with him.
The pen touched his forehead.
Pain sparked immediately. Azrem's body arched, his fingers splayed. But he did not cry. He grimaced, breathed, endured. The spirit held him.
The Hesha drew with solemn grace. He traced the symbol from Azrem's forehead, back through his bald head towards his back, reaching its deepest rear. The sacred shape curved and looped, folding destiny into flesh.
And just as the pen reached the base of his back--
Azrem farted.
The sound echoed off the temple walls. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then the nobles laughed. Even the Mekan cracked a smile. The Hesha pinched her nose in protest, eyes wide. The Seer chuckled behind his hood.
The High Priestess didn't laugh. But her lips curled into something close.
Even the divine had room for joy.
And yet, the moment passed.
The final stroke was drawn.
Azrem's body began to glow. The ink shimmered across his skin, each symbol pulsing with light. His eyes opened—no longer the eyes of an infant, but of something ancient. Something awakened.
His body rose from the altar, suspended in the air. Winds rushed through the temple. The rain stopped. Thunder cracked.
He had entered the Yehindra state.
A voice—deep, echoing, not from any mouth—spoke within the minds of all present:
"He is the vessel. He is the bond."
Azrem lowered gently back to the altar. The light faded from his skin, but not from his soul.
The nobles knelt. The Seer wept. The Hesha placed the pen across her chest in gratitude.
And above it all, the High Priestess whispered to herself:
"May balance remain."
Only silence… and a soft shift in the air.
The High Priestess turned suddenly. Her eyes narrowed. Somewhere deep in the shadows of the temple, something moved—slow, cold, and wrong.
She wasn't sure what it was.
But she knew one thing.
Something else had awakened that day.
Not just the Yehindra.