The rain hammered the ancient stones, each drop a tiny drumbeat in the symphony of the storm. A lone figure moved through the downpour, boots muffled on the slick cobblestones. The boy clutched a dagger, its cold steel a stark contrast to the fever in his blood. A sheathed sword bounced against his back with each step toward the looming palace. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the rain, yet his jaw remained tight, a flicker of defiance in his sorrowful eyes. This was Surya Pratap, prince of sayola kingdom, now a warrior walking to his doom. Despair clung to him like the wet fabric of his tunic. He paused before the palace gates, their iron surface pitted and scarred. He swiped at his eyes, took a shuddering breath, and pushed the gates open. They groaned in protest, a sound swallowed by the storm. The courtyard beyond was a wasteland of shattered stone and toppled pillars, monuments to a battle long past. He walked on, unfazed, the destruction nothing new. He stopped before a darkened archway.
"Surya Pratap, why don't you stop?" a voice boomed from the shadows. "You come every time, you lose and die, and then come again. How long will you keep this up? How many years have you been going on like this?" Surya Pratap drew his dagger, the metal glinting in the faint light. "I will keep coming until I kill you. No matter how many times it takes." Silence stretched, broken only by the drumming rain. Then, the voice, laced with weariness and a hint of amusement, echoed again.
"Surya Pratap, you haven't been able to kill me for so many years. What makes you so confident now? Give up this foolishness and set me free. I won't kill you. I'll make you my slave."
Surya Pratap ignored his voice. He knelt, tracing symbols into the stone floor with the tip of his sword. "Surya Pratap, leave me be, or the day I come out, no one will survive!" the voice roared, frustration edging into its tone. "None of your heirs will be spared. Your people, their families, all of them will be killed. Why do you want to doom so many people with you?"
The suryapratap continued his work, his brow furrowed in concentration. When the last mark was complete, a figure shimmered into existence beside him. She was ethereal, a girl woven from moonlight and stardust, her smile as radiant as the dawn.
A deafening crash shook the archway. The shadows writhed. "I will not leave you, Mohini!" the voice bellowed. "Once I am free, you will be my plaything!"
Mohini ignored the threat, her gaze fixed on Surya Pratap. She smiled sadly. He met her eyes for a fleeting moment, then looked away, his face etched with sorrow.
She extended a hand, her touch like a cool breeze. She started to turn and walk towards a doorway bathed in ethereal light.
He followed without a word.
The doorway dissolved into a blinding flash, and then, only the sounds of battle echoed from within. The clash of steel, the roar of fury, the desperate cries of the dying - a symphony of violence that raged for two years. Then, silence.
"Surya Pratap," a voice whispered, laced with triumph. "You forgot to make a mark in your sadness. You will be born again, but you won't remember anything. And I… I will be free." A pause, thick with anticipation. "Surya Pratap, your death will be in my hands."
A flicker of fear finally crossed the boy face. This could be his last chance. He scrambled to make one final mark, a desperate attempt to preserve some fragment of his memory. As his fingers traced the symbol, darkness consumed him.