Chapter One: The Last Day of Normal

  The late afternoon sun stretched golden fingers across the fields, casting long shadows from the tall sugarcane stalks. In the quiet village of Rohaniya, life moved slow, like the breeze that carried the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke. It was the kind of place where time didn’t chase you—it waited. Where people still waved from rooftops and cows knew which gate led to home.

  Nine-year-old Harshit Raj Singh sat crouched by the edge of the dirt road, entirely consumed in his own world. His knees were dusty, his shirt untucked, and a trail of scratches ran along one arm from a recent tree-climbing “mission.” He was building again—his battlefield of pebbles, sticks, and dry leaves. It wasn't just a game. It was his game.

  In his world, he was the commander of the Iron Guard, a noble band of stone soldiers. Their enemies—the mischievous Dust Fiends—were made of broken twigs, always hiding, always plotting. Every battle had a story. Every hero had a name. And Harshit, with a stick as his sword and a pocket full of "talismans"—a marble, an old key, a coin worn smooth—was their fearless general.

  He talked as he played, quietly narrating strategies and surprise ambushes. He never liked going home too soon. Even now, when the sky had begun to take on that soft, purplish hue of evening, he stayed. The other kids had vanished long ago, swallowed by warm kitchens and scolding mothers.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  From far off, the familiar call came.

  “Harshit! Dinner’s ready!”

  His mother’s voice, tired but gentle.

  He smiled. “Coming!” he shouted, finishing the last move in the day’s campaign. He stood up, brushing the dust from his knees. The stick—his Ironblade—was tucked behind his shoulder like a true warrior’s sword.

  He began walking home, taking the longer path around the banyan tree like he always did. The sun clung to the horizon like it didn’t want to leave either. The air was still warm. A cow bellowed in the distance.

  Then he saw it.

  A van.

  Black. Silent. Parked halfway down the narrow dirt road where no cars ever came. It wasn’t one of the local taxis. It had no plates. The windows were too dark. Too polished. The kind of van that didn’t belong.

  Harshit slowed, his brows furrowing.

  A man leaned against the front, holding a newspaper. Odd. No one read papers out here—especially not in English. Another man knelt near the rear tire, fiddling with something. His movements were… sharp. Not natural.

  Harshit’s fingers curled instinctively around the marble in his pocket.

  He looked back toward the banyan tree. Home was just ten minutes away. But something didn’t feel right. His chest began to tighten. His heartbeat quickened—not panicked, but confused.

  The man at the tire looked up.

  They made eye contact.

  Harshit turned without thinking and broke into a run.

  He didn’t hear the man shout. Just the sudden scuffle of feet behind him. Then—a hiss. Like steam. Like a snake.

  Pain.

  His neck burned. His knees buckled mid-step. The world tilted. His vision blurred as the sky above spun in slow motion. His Ironblade stick dropped from his hand and hit the earth with a dull thud.

  The road was sideways now. His arms didn’t respond. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

  He saw the men. One picked up the stick and tossed it into the bushes. The other lifted him like he weighed nothing.

  And just before the van door closed, he saw his marble—green and swirled—roll out of his pocket and vanish beneath the roots of the banyan tree.

  Then darkness.