The moon had not yet risen when Aarav stood at the city's northern gate, wrapped in a dark shawl, his long hair tied tightly behind him. The air was heavy, dense with the silence of people leaving behind everything they'd ever known.
Around him, fires flickered low, casting shadows over chariots stacked with sacks of grain, bronze tools, water pots, and bundles of cloth. Women held crying infants, old men leaned on staffs, children clung to goats and oxen, all gathered under the pale stars—one-third of Mohenjo-Daro, ready to follow a man, not a king.
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> "We take no throne with us," Aarav had said. "Only trust."
Devika moved beside him, her saree wet from dew, her eyes steady. "They're waiting for your voice, Aarav. Just once more."
He stepped onto a raised stone and let his voice rise over the murmuring crowd.
> "The city we leave is not the end—it is the seed. We go not as exiles, but as planters of a new dawn. Let our children speak of this night not in fear—but in pride."
A beat of silence.
Then, slowly, the people bowed their heads, and the march began.
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Day One: The caravan moved in columns, chariots creaking, oxen braying, and dust rising beneath weary feet. They followed ancient paths through open plains and dry scrub, navigating by the stars and Aarav's maps carved into leather scrolls.
Children sang old songs to distract themselves. Women cooked flatbread on clay sheets balanced over fire-pits. The guards watched the horizon with sharp eyes, bows strung.
Aarav walked at the front, never riding.
> "The leader's feet must bleed before the people's do," he told Devika, when she offered him a place in the cart.
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Day Two: The sky darkened. A wall of grey clouds rolled in from the west. The wind rose, howling like a warning.
By noon, the heavens opened.
The rain fell in sheets, so dense it was like walking through waterfalls. The paths turned to mud. Children were lifted onto carts. Fires died. Food got soaked.
"Move away from the river line!" Aarav shouted, his voice barely rising above the storm. "Climb toward the stones!"
They diverted course, leaving the lower grounds and climbing toward ancient, rocky hills that dotted the western edges of the basin.
That night, soaked and shivering, the people huddled in shallow caves, their bodies pressed close for warmth.
---
By dawn of Day Three, as the rain slowed to a hiss, Aarav stood atop a boulder and stared eastward.
What he saw froze him in place.
A wall of churning brown water now swallowed the land where Mohenjo-Daro once stood. Buildings, temples, markets—all gone. Submerged beneath the furious overflow of the Sindhu River.
Devika climbed beside him, clutching his arm. "It's real," she whispered.
He nodded, his jaw clenched. "We would have died, all of us."
---
That evening, the survivors lit fires inside the caves. Food was dried. Oil rubbed into cold limbs. Children laughed again, chasing goats among the stones.
> "We'll build again," Aarav said to the gathering. "Not just homes, but hope."
An elder stepped forward. "You were right, son. The gods are with you. We shall follow wherever you lead."
Aarav bowed. But inside, he knew—it wasn't over.
The rain was just the beginning.
Now, the rebirth of a civilization had truly begun.