Freezing air bit at Rudra’s exposed skin. Snow swirled around the hermitage, a relentless white expanse against the deep indigo twilight of the Himalayas. For sixteen years, this solitude had been his world, his training ground, his sanctuary. Tonight, the silence shattered.
Footsteps crunched, unnaturally loud, through the fresh powder. Not animal. Too rhythmic. Too many.
Rudra’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched, a silent, predatory intake. He was already moving, a blur of dark linen against the white, his ancient-looking knife a familiar weight in his grip. Devraj, his guru, stood before him, a solid, unyielding presence, his stance already shifted from meditation to readiness.
“They’re here,” Devraj’s voice rumbled, low and guttural. No surprise, only grim acceptance.
Shadows detached themselves from the swirling snow, growing into hulking figures. Seven of them. Their faces were obscured by dark balaclavas, their movements synchronized, efficient. They carried short, curved blades and compact firearms, glinting dully in the dim light.
One figure lunged, a silent predator. Its blade arced, aimed for Devraj’s heart. Rudra didn't hesitate. His body moved on instinct, a honed weapon in itself. He intercepted the assassin, a low crouch, a whirlwind of motion.
Steel shrieked against steel as Devraj parried another attack. Rudra was faster. Leaner. He spun, his knife a silver flash. The assassin grunted, momentarily thrown off balance.
He drove his elbow into the man’s jaw, a sickening crunch. The assassin staggered. Rudra’s knife found its mark, plunging deep into the soft flesh of the man's throat. A gasp. A gurgle.
Blood bloomed dark on the pristine snow. As the man crumpled, Rudra’s gaze snagged on a small, intricate insignia stitched onto the collar of his tactical gear. A seven-pointed star, intertwined with a stylized wheel. A chill, colder than the Himalayan winds, seeped into Rudra's bones. He’d seen crude drawings of it in ancient texts. The Satta Mandal.
Another assailant closed in, his blade already swinging. Rudra yanked his knife free, the dying man’s weight pulling him down. He rolled, narrowly avoiding the swipe, the cold steel whistling inches from his ear. He was back on his feet instantly, his senses on overdrive.
Devraj fought with a controlled ferocity, a force of nature. His bare hands were lethal weapons, deflecting, striking, incapacitating. But there were too many. Three more assassins swarmed him, their movements relentless.
One struck low, sweeping his legs. Devraj stumbled. Another slammed a rifle butt into his ribs. A grunt of pain ripped from his throat. Rudra’s blood ran cold.
“Guru!” he roared, a primal sound torn from his chest. He lunged, abandoning his current opponent, pure rage fueling his speed.
He tackled one of Devraj’s attackers, sending them both tumbling into the snow. His knife flashed, finding another throat, silencing another threat. But he was too late.
Devraj sagged. A long, slender blade protruded from his abdomen, driven by a fourth assassin who had emerged from the shadows. The cold glint of the steel was stark against Devraj’s dark robes. His eyes, usually serene, now held a deep, profound pain.
Rudra felt a sickening lurch in his gut. His vision narrowed, the world compressing to Devraj, the blade, the spreading crimson stain on the white snow. He roared again, a sound of pure anguish and fury.
He tore through the remaining attackers like a wild beast. His movements were brutal, unforgiving. Blades clashed, fists connected, bodies fell. He didn’t care about technique, only about ending them. Each kill was a desperate, visceral scream of agony for his dying master.
Eventually, only Rudra stood, chest heaving, knuckles bruised, blood—his own and theirs—staining his clothes. The hermitage was littered with broken bodies, the snow churned and stained. The wind howled, carrying the stench of blood and death.
He dropped to his knees beside Devraj, whose breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. His guru’s face was ashen, his lips tinged blue with cold and fading life. Rudra's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread.
“Guru…” Rudra whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out, his hand trembling, unsure where to touch without causing more pain. The blade was still there, a cruel testament to their ambush.
Devraj’s eyes, clouded with pain, found Rudra’s. A desperate urgency burned within them, a fire refusing to be extinguished by the encroaching cold of death. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. Blood flecked his lips.
“Listen… my son,” Devraj rasped, his voice barely audible above the wind. His hand, surprisingly strong, gripped Rudra’s wrist. His grip was a vise, demanding attention. “There is… so much… you do not know.”
Rudra shook his head, denial warring with the stark reality. “Don’t speak, Guru. Save your strength. I’ll… I’ll get help.” He knew it was a lie. There was no help for miles, for days. Devraj knew it too.
Devraj’s grip tightened, his gaze piercing Rudra’s stoic façade, tearing through his carefully constructed walls. “No time,” he wheezed. His eyes pleaded, a silent agony. “They… the Satta Mandal… they hunt you.”
Rudra’s mind reeled. The insignia. The name he’d glimpsed in forgotten scrolls, a symbol of immense, hidden power. But why him? What connection could he, a solitary student in the Himalayas, have with such a formidable, clandestine force?
“My life… it was a lie,” Devraj continued, each word a monumental effort. His fingers fumbled inside his robes, pulling out a tarnished silver pendant. It was shaped like a fierce, stylized eagle, its wings spread wide, clutching a single, dark gem.
Blood from Devraj’s wound smeared the metal, turning the once-bright silver a horrifying crimson. He pressed it into Rudra’s palm, his skin clammy and cold. “This… your father’s. A Pratap.”
Rudra stared at the pendant, then back at Devraj, his mind struggling to process the implications. Father? Pratap? He had no father. No family. Only Devraj. This man, bleeding out in the snow, was his only kin.
Devraj’s eyes flickered, his strength rapidly failing. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, a final, agonizing effort. “You are Rudra Pratap… son of Veer… your mother lives… in Delhi!” His hand went limp, releasing Rudra's wrist. His eyes glazed over, fixed on the swirling snow, then dimmed, becoming vacant.
Rudra clutched the blood-soaked pendant, the cold metal burning against his skin. His world, once a simple, ordered landscape of snow and meditation, irrevocably shattered into a million sharp, painful pieces. Delhi. Mother. Veer. Pratap. A torrent of unknown names, a lifetime of lies, all crashing down with his guru’s last, terrible breath.