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Chapter 1 – The Summons of Blood
Morning in ArcGyda did not arrive with birdsong or rustling leaves. It rose on the hum of pulse-generators and energy-veined towers, blooming like silver fire across the mirrored skyline. The city was alive—electric, elegant, and coldly sovereign.
Aaryan stood at the edge of his private observatory, barefoot, his breath visible in the controlled chill of the room. The floor beneath him thrummed softly, responding to his heartbeat. His eyes, dark and unreadable, stared out across the city he had built from nothing.
He didn't speak. He rarely did in the mornings.
Behind him, the automated walls shifted. A voice, gentle and warm, broke the silence.
> "You've fasted three days. The nutrient matrix is prepared."
Calen, his personal assistant, moved without sound. More than AI, less than man. A design uniquely his.
Aaryan made no reply.
Instead, he shifted slightly, his chest expanding in a single, controlled breath. For three days, he had remained in self-imposed silence, refining the flow of energy that coursed through him—not Qi, not mana, not spirit. Something older. Something modern. Something his ancestors would not understand.
He opened his palm.
A pale glow emerged, shaped like a teardrop. It hovered, weightless, alive.
Then he clenched his hand—and the glow vanished without trace.
Not a single emission. Not a single reading. That was the point.
He turned at last. His expression betrayed nothing.
"Status."
Calen stepped forward. "The Suryanagrah delegation has contacted you again. This time, the encryption signature belongs to the Matriarch Council. High priority."
Aaryan walked slowly toward the interface wall, dressed in a loose, dark robe, shoulders sharp with the outline of trained muscle. Every movement of his body was deliberate—no wasted gesture.
"Put it through," he said quietly.
The sigil formed: an ancient sun-wheel marked in gold, encircling a lotus engraved with Sanskrit script.
And then her face appeared.
She hadn't aged a day.
The Matriarch. His grandmother.
"Aaryan," she said.
Her voice was formal. Sharp. It lacked affection. It always had.
"You remember," he said without expression.
"I never forgot."
"Could've fooled me."
Her lips tightened. "This isn't the time for sentiment."
"It never was," he said, and folded his arms.
A long silence passed.
Then, with the gravity only blood-born elders could summon, she said:
> "The ruling line has spoken. The pact shall be fulfilled. Your bride awaits. Return to Suryanagrah. Now."
Aaryan didn't blink.
"You summoned me nineteen years late."
"This isn't about you," she snapped. "It's about the fate of our bloodline. And hers."
"…Hers?"
"Seriya," the Matriarch said. "She's still alive. Still waiting."
Aaryan turned his head slightly. The name didn't shake him. But behind his eyes, something shifted.
"I'll come," he said, voice flat.
"Good. The grandfather expects you. And the House of Rain has sent word—"
"I said I'll come," he cut in, sharper this time. "But not because you command me."
The screen went dark.
Calen approached with new instructions. "Shall I inform Umbra?"
"Yes. All shadow units to full black. No public trail. Mask every exit path."
"And your attire?"
Aaryan turned to the mirrored wall.
"Traditional."
---
Three Hours Later – En Route to Suryanagrah
The transport cruised without turbulence through stratified clouds, veiled by active cloaking, invisible even to satellite webs. Inside the personal cabin, Aaryan sat with his eyes closed. Across from him, Calen reviewed soft-data projections, holograms dancing quietly in the air.
He had not been back to Suryanagrah since he was six.
Not since his father stood silent beside the Matriarch, allowing his removal.
Not since his mother turned her face away.
A ghost of memory stirred—cherry blossoms. A courtyard. A girl with silver-threaded eyes and wind in her hair.
Seriya.
She had stood in front of him when they came to take him. Just for a moment.
And in that moment, he had remembered something strange.
Not love. Not friendship.
But purpose.
He clenched his hand slowly.
That memory had burned behind everything he built.
---
The Gates of Suryanagrah
When the transport arrived, the ancestral capital had not changed.
Still it stood—a city woven of lightless stone and ceremonial energy, guarded not by technology but by will and blood.
Sentries in archaic robes watched his approach with wary eyes. Some recognized him. Some merely saw an unknown outsider in elegant white.
At the steps of the main courtyard, his uncle Rajnath waited. Clean-cut beard, ceremonial armor, eyes always measuring.
"Aaryan," Rajnath said, stepping forward. "You've grown."
Aaryan gave him a faint nod. "You've shrunk."
Rajnath snorted, then gave a small smile. "Still sharp. I like that."
The gatekeepers moved aside.
Inside, the great hall held no warmth. Old carvings adorned the walls, scenes of Virya battles from a forgotten age. At the center, on raised platforms, the elders sat. The Matriarch. The Grandfather—Lord Vaideh Virya—lean and quiet, yet somehow more dangerous than any other in the room.
Cousins lined the inner rows. Some looked down at him. Others looked up.
And then she entered.
Seriya.
She moved like moonlight sliding down a blade—serene, controlled, unknowable. Her robes were storm-gray and laced with silver. Her face was veiled by only a thin sheer silk. Her eyes, however, remained unveiled. Clear, sharp, slightly curved upward—eyes that had long ago seen more than they should have.
She did not look surprised.
She did not smile.
"Aaryan Virya," she said, her voice quiet. "You've returned."
He met her gaze.
"Seriya of Rain," he said, just as calmly. "You've changed."
She inclined her head. "And yet, you recognize me."
"You never left my memory."
For a moment, the air between them became taut—like the pull of an invisible string.
The Matriarch broke it.
"The pact will be sealed at dusk. Until then, you may speak in the southern courtyard."
Seriya nodded once.
Aaryan turned and gestured with a hand.
They walked together in silence.
---
Southern Courtyard – Among the Blossoms
Petals drifted down around them. Ancient cherry trees bloomed in defiance of season, nurtured by spiritual flame. The stone paths wound through ponds and wind sculptures. Few could enter here—this was the private garden of those with true blood.
They walked slowly.
"You didn't speak to me for nineteen years," Seriya said quietly.
"You didn't write," he replied.
"I was forbidden."
"So was I."
Another silence.
"You've changed," she said, stopping near a lantern blooming with spiritual fire. "You don't walk like a man from the past. You walk like a storm on a leash."
"I had no choice," he replied.
"You chose silence."
"You chose obedience."
She turned. Her eyes narrowed.
"I chose survival."
The words cut deeper than they appeared. Aaryan looked at her more closely now.
"You were always the obedient one," he murmured.
"I was always the watched one," she replied. "You could disappear. I had to remain perfect."
He blinked once. Understanding dawned, just slightly.
"You're not the girl I remembered," he said.
"No," she said. "She died when you left."
The wind stirred again.
"I'll do what is required," she said at last. "But I won't pretend to love you."
"I don't need love," he replied. "Just someone who doesn't flinch."
She turned her head slowly.
"I won't flinch," she said, "but don't mistake that for loyalty."
He nodded once.
And for the first time, her lips curved—faintly. Not a smile. Something colder.
Like a promise of a war not yet declared.