Beneath the Same Moonlight

The chamber was lit with only a single lantern, casting soft golden light over the polished floors and the twin cradles resting near the carved stone wall. Queen Aoi sat beside them, her delicate hands stroking the cheeks of her sleeping sons. Her long hair flowed like midnight silk over her royal robes, and her face—though still youthful—was weighed down by a strange stillness tonight.
She sensed it.
The hesitation in Desha’s steps as he entered. The way he lingered at the door. Her eyes turned to him gently.
"You’ve been gone long from court," she said softly.
Desha exhaled. “I needed time to… think. There is something I must tell you.”
Aoi turned fully now, brows knitting with worry. “Is it the war in the east? Did the peace pact fail again?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not war of swords, Aoi. It’s… a war of truth.”
He knelt before her, not as a king, but as a husband. He took her hands into his.
“There has been a prophecy,” he said. “From the Saint of Nirvana Shrine.”
Aoi’s breath hitched, but she said nothing.
“Before their birth,” Desha continued, “he saw it in divine clarity. Our sons—Shaurya and Prahlad—they are not like other children. One is touched by the light of the gods. The other… by something darker. A presence ancient and unseen even by divine eyes.”
Aoi’s hands trembled in his. She turned to look at the cradles. “And which… which of them bears that burden?”
“Shaurya is the Flameborn,” Desha whispered. “Prahlad is the one shrouded in shadow.”
There was a long silence.
Aoi’s lips parted but no words came. Her gaze drifted to Prahlad’s tiny face—peaceful, innocent. Then to Shaurya, whose skin still held the faint glow of divine light.
Desha expected fear. A flinch. Perhaps even revulsion. But what he saw instead was a tear trailing down Aoi’s cheek.
“They are both… beautiful,” she whispered. “Both mine. How can you speak of one as a blessing and the other as a burden?”
“I do not,” Desha said. “The world might. The court… already tried to suggest things I shall not repeat.”
“Then let the world be wrong,” she said fiercely. “They are mine, Desha. Ours. No prophecy—divine or damned—will steal that from me.”
She stood, walked to the cradles, and knelt between them. One hand stroked Shaurya’s golden hair. The other brushed Prahlad’s pale cheek.
She leaned down and kissed their foreheads, one by one.
“I don’t care what name the Saint gave them,” she said. “They are brothers. And they shall be loved equally.”
Desha’s throat tightened. He moved beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I agree,” he said. “Let both be raised here, in Aryavart. They shall learn together. Train together. Be protected together. I will see to it.”
“But the prophecy…”
“We will handle it,” he said quietly. “With truth, and with strength.”
Aoi leaned her head against his chest. “Then I will raise them not as the chosen and the cursed… but as two hearts born under the same sky.”
And so it was decided.

---
The twin sons of King Desha and Queen Aoi were to be raised in the royal palace of Aryavart, the glittering capital of Kashi. A city of great gardens, moonstone towers, and humming spell-lanterns, Aryavart had never known the echoes of such secrecy before.
By royal command, only a handful of trusted caretakers and palace servants were allowed near the twins. Their tongues were sealed with powerful vow-binding magic, and none outside the family were permitted to speak the name "Prahlad."
He would be known to the outer court only as a distant ward of the queen, a child of noble birth adopted into the palace under unknown circumstances.
Despite this secrecy, their education was equal.
Both were trained in magic theory, divine scripture, ancient languages, and the art of swordplay. Both ate at the royal table. Both walked the garden paths. Both heard stories whispered by their mother beneath silken tents under starlight.
But only Shaurya appeared during public festivals and holy ceremonies. Prahlad remained in the shadows, glimpsed only in fleeting moments on special nights when the palace guards were instructed to look the other way.

---
Five Years Later – Under the Full Moon.
The royal moon garden shimmered under silver light. Marble walkways wound between crystal-petaled flowers and pale-leafed trees. The air was sweet with the scent of dusk-lilies.
Two boys ran barefoot across the dew-laced grass, their laughter echoing across the silence.
“Slower, Shaurya!” Prahlad called out.
Shaurya turned with a grin. “You’re the one chasing me!”
Prahlad pouted, his short dark hair tousled from the run. “Not fair—you used magic again!”
“I didn’t!” Shaurya laughed. “Well… maybe just a little.”
Their game came to an end beneath the sacred Moon Pavilion, a domed structure of enchanted glass. The boys, now five, were nearly identical in height, but opposite in aura.
Shaurya radiated warmth, like sunlight captured in skin. His laughter brought energy to everyone near.
Prahlad, in contrast, had an aura of calm, deep and endless like a well. Animals often approached him, unafraid, yet magic around him flickered strangely—as if unsure of its place.
“Let’s rest,” Prahlad said, dropping beside a low bench.
But as he sat, a sharp stone caught his foot. He yelped, falling backward.
Shaurya rushed to him. “Prahlad! You okay?”
Prahlad winced, his palm scraped. A thin line of blood trickled.
Before any servant could notice, Shaurya took off his own cloak and wrapped it around Prahlad’s hand.
“You have to be more careful,” Shaurya said, frowning.
Prahlad looked up at him with wide eyes. “But I’m not you. I’m not the hero.”
Shaurya sighed and pulled him into a light hug. “You’re my brother. That’s better than being a hero.”

---
They both knew the truth now.
At age three, King Desha and Queen Aoi had told them everything. The prophecy. The words of the Saint. The world’s fears. The decision to raise them together, hidden but whole.
Neither boy had cried that day.Shaurya had simply nodded.Prahlad had asked only one question: “Can I still be with him?”
Desha had answered: “Yes. Always.”

---
Later that night, under the torch lit balcony, the twins faced off with wooden practice swords. Their swordmaster, Sir Karun, watched from the shadows.
Shaurya struck first, quick and light on his feet. Prahlad blocked, but his posture faltered, and within three moves he was disarmed.
“You’re improving,” Shaurya said, smiling and helping him up.
Prahlad huffed. “Barely.”
“You’ll catch up. Maybe you’ll beat me someday.”
“Not if you keep using that glowing trick again,” Prahlad teased.
“Just ask Chakra to give you one too,” Shaurya joked.
Prahlad looked up at the moon.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “Or maybe… I already have something else.”