The village of Varnak was old – older than its crumbling stones, older than the tattered beliefs of its people. But one thing never changed: in Varnak, if you have no power, you are nothing.
And Anshuman had nothing.
At sixteen, he had more burdens on his back than most adult men. He rose before dawn to lift bricks, chop firewood and fetch water from the village well to feed his mother and five younger siblings. His clothes hung in loose threads. His hands had grown callous. His dreams… buried long ago.
But even amid the dirt and sweat, what hurt most was the silence during the selection of Hades.
Every year, the academy – where only those born with power were trained – would send a scout to measure the auras of the children. Hades were humans blessed by the gods, born with extraordinary abilities. Some could bend water. Others could break stones. And then there was Anshuman, standing awkwardly in line with the other candidates.
When the scout held the crystal stone to his chest, it didn't glow. It didn't twinkle. It didn't even hum.
Just a cold silence.
"Another empty stone," the scout had muttered under his breath. "A waste."
That was three years ago.
Today, nothing had changed.
He picked up the last water pot, balancing it carefully on his shoulder. As he walked through the village square, whispers followed him like a shadow.
"There goes the failed Hades."
"The poor boy is still hoping?"
"His father left for some reason."
He didn't answer. He never answered. The words were easy to ignore. There was no hunger. There was no shame. The sound of his little brother crying all night because there wasn't enough food—it wasn't easy.
He reached home—a mud-and-stone hut on the edge of the village, just behind the fields where the real Hades kids trained, throwing fireballs and ripping down trees.
"Bhaiya!" Little Raghav ran to him, barefoot, holding his waist.
"Careful," Anshuman said, kneeling down to wipe the dust from his brother's forehead. "You'll fall."
"I'm hungry," Raghav whispered. "Is there rice today?"
Anshuman didn't answer.
Inside, their mother stirred a pot with just water and leftover dal. She didn't look up. Her hair had turned gray too quickly, and her eyes were always puffy from the smoke of cooking without wood.
"I'll try again," Anshuman said.
His mother sighed. "How long, son? How long will you keep trying when the gods have given you nothing?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Not when something deep inside refused to give up. Every night, he dreamed of fire, storms, a throne made of ash, and a voice – deep, ancient – whispering in a language he didn't understand.
He woke up sweaty, heart pounding, a faint glow in his eyes… but by morning, the glow had vanished. Just a dream. Just a lie.
Or perhaps, a memory.
That evening, as the sun sank below the hills and the villagers lit their lanterns, Anshuman sat outside alone. The wind was stirring the dry leaves. In the distance, the academy bell rang – a sinister chime that echoed power, privilege, and everything he wasn't.
He clenched his fists.
"Why was I born this way?" He whispered to the stars.
But the stars do not answer the powerless boys.
They only watch.
Without blinking.
Waiting.