Some villages are reduced to ash.
Some memories survive the flames.
And some wounds never truly stop burning.

Bhima stood still at the village’s edge, his greatsword heavy in his grip. His shadow stretched long against the ash-strewn ground. Star watched him from a few paces back, her breath shallow, her heart tight.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.

But something broke in him.

“Bhima,” Star said gently, stepping toward him.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the scorched remnants of a small house near the river—just a pile of stones and timber now.

“This was where I was born,” he said softly. “Right there.”

Star didn’t reply. She let the silence cradle his voice.

“My father, Raghava... was a hunter. Taught me everything I know about tracking and survival. My mother, Sumitra, she was a healer. She could make medicine from anything the forest gave her.” He chuckled faintly—an echo of something warm, something buried. “I used to help her gather herbs. She used to call me ‘little bear’ because I was so strong. Always trying to carry more than I should.”

He walked forward, slowly, like each step through the ash was a step through memory. He knelt and sifted through the rubble with thick fingers, carefully, almost reverently. Then he lifted something out of the ruin—a small wooden carving, blackened but intact. A panther. Weathered, scorched, but whole.

“I made this for Anaya,” he said. “My daughter.”

Star’s breath caught. Klara came to stand beside her, silent, her expression softening.

“My wife, Rukmini... she loved this village,” Bhima said, voice cracking. “We were going to raise Anaya here. Teach her everything we knew. I wanted her to learn to fight, yes—but also to live. To live without fear. Without chains.”

He clenched the carving in his fist, muscles trembling as embers curled around the edges of his voice.

“Then the sky tore open,” he continued. “And the Riftwalkers came.”

He paused. His knuckles turned white against the wooden carving.

“They came like lightning—like nightmares made real. The sky turned violet. The trees screamed. We thought they were demons at first. But they didn’t speak. They just... took. Fire in their hands, weapons that roared louder than thunder. They burned everything.”

He closed his eyes, the memory unfolding like a wound.

“I fought beside my father that day,” he said. “Right at the center of the village. We drove back the first wave, held the north path. My father’s arrows never missed. But we were outnumbered. And then I saw it—two Riftwalkers dragging Rukmini and Anaya away through the fire.”

Star and Klara froze.

“I ran,” Bhima said, voice distant, hollow. “I screamed their names. My father shouted after me, told me not to go alone. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I tore through the flames, through the smoke. I killed two of them. But by the time I reached the river, they were gone.”

He stared at the carving, then let it fall gently into his palm like a prayer.

“I searched every outpost. Every prison. Every Riftwalker camp from here to the edge of the Tapasvini Valley. Every burned house. Every corpse.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles tight.

“But I never found them. Not their bodies. Not even a trace. And so I keep hoping... hoping that maybe they were taken, not killed. That maybe, just maybe... they’re still alive.”

A quiet wind passed through the ruins, whispering through the charred bones of the village.

Star stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand,” she said softly.

“No,” Bhima said, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. “You fight for the world, Star. I fight for them. I formed the resistance not to avenge, but to search. To find the people they stole from. And maybe... to stop them from taking anyone else.”

He stood, steadier now. Not whole, but anchored.

“I fight not for revenge,” he said. “But because no child should lose their home to flames. Because no parent should bury their hope in ash.”

From the north came a signal—Nakula’s scouts had found survivors fleeing toward Jayapatha Peak. Not many, but some.

Star turned. “We move.”

Bhima looked back at the village one last time.

Then he followed.

As they traveled, the weight of the war settled over them again. The trees thinned into wind-battered hills, and the silence between the group became more than fatigue—it was the silence of grieving warriors carrying ghosts.

Star rode near Bhima. Their silence was mutual, but this time, it felt shared. Not cold. Not empty. A bond had formed—through grief, through resilience, through the ashes of Gandharva. Bhima didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. Star could feel the shift in him. Not softer, but steadier. Like iron tempered by flame.

Bhima had spent years searching for the family the Riftwalkers stole from him.
He didn’t know it yet…
but the answer to that search was already moving toward him.