The wind stirred dry leaves through the hollow streets of Gandharva. Smoke curled from scattered cooking fires, mingling with the scent of damp soil and distant rain. Villagers moved slowly—some tending to wounds, others gathering what little remained after the last demonic incursion.

Into this quiet ruin rolled a cart.

It was a patched-together wagon, its wooden wheels groaning beneath crates of herbs, bandages, water jars, and tools. A broad-shouldered man walked beside it, humming off-key, a satchel of medicine swinging from one hand with practiced ease.

He wore worn traveler’s leathers, a dust-stained scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. Dark curls were tied back at the nape, and a long scar traced the curve of his jaw, lending his face a permanent edge of stubborn amusement.

Bhima.

A few villagers waved—some with relief, others with reverence. He waved back without slowing, calling out names, tossing bundles of dried medicine with effortless precision.

“Back again, Bhima!” an elder called from beside the well.

“Like a bad rash!” he shot back, sending a packet of salve arcing neatly into her hands.

“Ragha! For your mother’s cough!”

“Ama! Boil the roots this time, yeah?”

He slowed near the well, where a cluster of children gathered too close for comfort.

“Oi—back it up, you gremlins. I’ve got glass in here—”

Then he looked up.

And froze.

“…Wait a damn minute.”

He pointed first at Seth. Then at Erik.

“Well, I’ll be skinned by a sandworm and served with chutney—Erik Firehart? Seth Golden-Ears? You two still alive? And together?” He barked out a laugh. “I told the scouts you’d either die heroically or open a noodle stand somewhere.”

Seth grinned. “Noodles were the backup plan.”

Bhima hopped off the wagon, boots crunching against dead leaves, and strode toward them. He pulled Erik into a half-embrace that landed more like a backslap.

“Still carrying that oversized butter knife, I see.”

“It still cuts,” Erik replied, smirking.

“Gods above and below. Look at you two. I thought you were dead—or worse, married.”

“We’re alive,” Erik said, quieter now.

“Cats and dogs getting married? Think of the scandal,” Seth added, all teeth and amusement.

Bhima gave a slow nod, warmth settling behind the teasing. “Good. We need fighters like you back. And whatever you stole from the kitchens—we forgive you. Eventually.”

“I only took apples,” Seth said, raising both hands.

“And my boots,” Bhima added.

“They were sitting there.”

“On your feet.”

Laughter rippled through the village ruins, soft but genuine. A few birds scattered from the beams above as villagers peeked out from windows and doorways—drawn by a sound that felt, for a moment, like something they had almost forgotten.

But Bhima’s attention had already shifted.

As the laughter faded, his gaze moved past them—until it found her.

Star hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved. She stood at the quiet center of the group like a still flame, her presence balanced between shadow and light.

Bhima stared.

There was something… off about her. Not loud. Not overwhelming. But grounded. Rooted. Like thunder held behind ribs.

He tilted his head slightly.

“…You,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Star looked up. “Yes?”

He stepped closer, studying her as if trying to pull a name from memory.

The hair. The sword. The poise.

And something deeper—something unspoken behind her gaze.

He’d heard the stories. Half-whispers traded around campfires. Rumors carried from the edges of the world.

A girl who fell from the sky.

A blade that split the dark.

A voice that defied the World-Eater.

His breath caught.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “It’s you.”

Star blinked. “I don’t think—”

Bhima spun toward Erik and Seth, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You brought her here? Her? The one from the Reaper clash at the Northern Rift? The one who dropped out of the sky and carved that beast open like a jackfruit?”

Seth shrugged. “We were headed the same way.”

Bhima pointed emphatically at Star, who now looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Do you have any idea who this is? She’s the Star of Dawn! The girl who killed the World-Eater! The gods-damned sky-born demon-slaying legend!”

“I didn’t kill it alone,” Star said, quieter now.

Bhima didn’t hear her.

“You glowed, didn’t you? I heard about the glow!”

Seth leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “She still does. Sometimes. When she’s mad.”

Bhima turned back, pressing a hand to his chest as if struck by revelation.

“Stars above… you’re real.”

He stepped forward again, this time offering his hand with a more measured respect.

“Name’s Bhima. Leader of the western resistance. I deal in medicine, weapons, lies, and hope—whichever’s needed most.”

“Star Rosalind,” she said, taking his hand.

He grinned. “Figures. And here I thought the stories were exaggerating.”

He turned to the others.

“You lot are coming with me. The resistance is going to want to hear about this—immediately.”

He barked a quick order to the villagers to unload supplies, then clicked his tongue at the yakox.

“Move it. The sooner we reach Lakshmivana, the sooner I can convince everyone we’re not completely doomed.”

The wind stirred ash across the ground as they set off once more.

And Star followed…

stepping deeper into a war that had been waiting for her long before she ever arrived.