It began like the others had — a shared vision. But this time, neither Vivaan nor Sitara summoned it. It pulled them under without warning, no chant, no touch, just a sudden plunge into something ancient and aching.
They stood within the Temple of the Ashen Flame, its walls cracked with age, the torches burning blue. But they were not themselves.
Vivaan felt the shift first. His hands were not his — broader, calloused. Sitara's voice came from someone else's throat. They weren't Vivaan and Sitara. They were Arav and Padmavati.
Padmavati's eyes were wild with fear as she whispered, "They've twisted the prophecy. It wasn't meant to crown a weapon."
Her voice trembled like a song half-forgotten. "It was meant to bind a wound. To heal, not to conquer."
Arav stepped back, fury burning behind his eyes. "Your brother — he won't stop. He'll rewrite every truth until even the gods forget it."
He gripped her hand, hard. "Padma, we have to hide her. The child. If they find out what she is—"
The vision shattered like stained glass.
Vivaan gasped, eyes wide, the real-world tilting as he stumbled back. Sitara was on her knees, breathing raggedly, her fingers digging into the stone floor.
"We've been played," she said, voice barely a whisper. "This wasn't fate. This was theft."
Later, as the torches in the palace burned low, Talan and Aasha slipped through the crypts beneath the east wing. Dust coated every surface, and the air reeked of rust and rot. But it was there, hidden in the walls, that they found it — a ledger of encoded letters, each sealed with a sigil Aasha recognized immediately.
"This is Ravindra's," she breathed, holding up the torn wax impression. "But it's older. Much older."
Talan flipped through page after page, his brow furrowed.
"These weren't just records. These are instructions. Rewrites. Every version of the prophecy — altered."
Aasha's face went pale. "He's not the origin. He's the continuation."
They stared at one passage, the ink still sharp despite its age:
"Let fire and shadow clash — not to unite, but to purge. The one who survives, not the one who balances, shall rule."
"It was never about unity," Aasha whispered. "It was about ensuring we never found it."
Talan slammed the ledger shut. "The second brother never died. He hid. And he used the chaos to crown someone who'd keep the truth buried."
When they returned, Sitara was already unraveling.
She had locked herself in her mother's ruined chambers, the air cold and still. Vivaan found her kneeling before the broken mirror, her hands trembling, her eyes hollow.
"All this pain… all these years…" Her voice cracked. "And it was all built on a lie."
She reached out and touched the fractured glass. "My mother was exiled. My father hunted. And I've worn their shame like a badge of honor. Like it meant something."
Vivaan didn't speak. He simply knelt behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as her body shook.
"No more lies," he said softly. "We burn this down. We build from ash."
That night, the Shadow Crown pulsed hot against her skin. When she closed her eyes, it spoke — not in words, but in truth.
The voice was old. Older than any language. It filled her bones with something terrible and tender.
"You were never meant to bear it alone."
"The crown is not a weapon. It is a vessel. It needs balance — fire and shadow, not one or the other."
"The prophecy was not wrong. They simply taught you to fear what it asked of you: to share the crown."
When Sitara awoke, her eyes burned silver in the dark. She turned to Vivaan, still asleep beside her, and whispered, "They feared unity because it would've made us unstoppable."
At dawn, they gathered the others. Talan, Aasha, Lira. Their inner circle. Their truth-keepers.
"We don't run," Sitara said. Her voice was steady now — iron wrapped in silk. "We speak the truth. In the court. In front of every house that ever looked down on us."
Vivaan nodded. "We don't let them choose between us anymore. They'll hear the real prophecy — our prophecy."
As they sealed the plan with silence, a black shape crashed through the window, glass flying. A raven — broken, bleeding. In its claws was a single scroll wrapped in gold thread.
Vivaan caught it before it hit the ground.
The seal was unmistakable: a serpent eating its tail.
Sitara's eyes narrowed. "The second brother."
Vivaan opened the scroll and read aloud:
"I am not dead. And I am not done. I come for what is mine. And I do not come alone."
Outside, thunder cracked. The wind howled like wolves. A storm was coming — not of prophecy, not of fate.
But of reckoning.