The Power That Should Not Awaken

The summer sun in Aryavart shone gently that morning, filtered by the thin veil of enchanted clouds above the Royal Training Grounds. The garden of warriors was vast, with rows of carved stone pillars and open patches of fine white sand. Servants had watered the training field earlier, leaving a crisp freshness in the air.
Two young princes stood at the heart of the field, facing a circle of armored instructors—each a master in their craft.
"Begin elemental focus!" barked Instructor Gavik, a stern earth mage whose beard had more grey than black. "Remember, channel through the inner breath, not force! Let your soul guide the mana!"
Prahlad closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath.
The air shimmered faintly around him.
Beside him, Shaurya raised one palm, and a small ball of golden flame flickered into life, dancing like a tame spirit.
Prahlad clenched his fingers. A flicker of something black, like smoke laced with violet, hovered for a second before vanishing. Again.
He gritted his teeth.
Gavik watched closely. “Prahlad, your aura resists alignment. Let it flow. Do not command it—listen to it.”
“I’m trying,” Prahlad muttered.
“Try less,” Shaurya offered, smiling. “You always overthink it.”
Prahlad gave him a dry look. “You don’t overthink enough.”
After an hour of elemental channeling, the group moved to swords. Wooden practice blades were replaced with runesteel, enchanted to prevent lethal damage but still painful enough to leave bruises for days.
They sparred with graceful footwork, lunges, and counters. Shaurya moved like wind and fire—fast, elegant, precise.
Prahlad was less fluid, but when he struck, the ground itself seemed to pulse—heaviness, weight, pressure. As if something deeper stirred beneath the surface.
When swords and spells were finally combined, the real test began.
"Concentrate your element into the blade," said Gavik. "Only those who can synchronize magic and sword shall advance to higher disciplines. Begin!"
Shaurya moved first.
Flames trailed his blade as he swept into a flurry of slashes against the air, each arc painting glowing trails that shimmered like divine calligraphy.
Prahlad followed, slower. His blade shimmered once, then again—but this time, instead of glowing, it pulsed with a sickening hum.
The instructor's eyes narrowed.
Suddenly, the air around Prahlad cracked.
A deep ringing sound tore through the training ground.
His blade screamed with violet-black energy—raw, unstable. Symbols no one recognized crawled down the steel like cursed ink.
“Prahlad! Cease at once!” Gavik shouted.
But Prahlad didn’t hear him.
His eyes widened—then darkened. Completely. A halo of chaotic power erupted around his form. Wind screamed. The earth around him cracked in circular fractures.
Servants screamed and fled the courtyard.
Gavik raised his hands to suppress the energy, but the force hit him like a storm wall—sending him crashing against a pillar and falling limp.
“Prahlad!!” Shaurya cried, rushing forward.
But Prahlad—wasn't himself anymore.
The boy’s expression had vanished. His mouth was half-open, his hands gripped the sword with unnatural force, and a shadowed voice not his own echoed faintly.
> “Consume… Purge… Break the seal…”


Shaurya knew he had seconds.
He dashed forward, deflecting the edge of Prahlad’s cursed swing, but the impact shattered part of his sword. Another wave of pressure threw him back.
“Prahlad!! It’s me! SHAURYA!!”
The storm wavered.
Shaurya, bruised and bleeding, stood up again. His ribs screamed, but he walked forward slowly.
“I told you, remember? You’re my brother. Not a weapon. Not a curse. Just… Prahlad.”
The sword in Prahlad’s hand trembled.
Shaurya gritted his teeth. His steps were slower now.
“I still remember when you protected that injured sparrow instead of practicing,” he smiled weakly. “And how you lied about the missing apple pie so the cooks wouldn’t yell at me…”
The storm cracked.
“I remember when you cried because you thought hurting me in training meant you’d become like the ‘dark thing’ they warned you about.”
A faint tear slipped down his cheek.
“But you never were that thing. Not once.”
He stood now only feet away.
“Please,” he said softly, “come back.”
Then, in a flash, Prahlad’s blade swung—not at him, but through him, cutting through Shaurya’s chest and shoulder. Shaurya gasped, falling to his knees.
“Shaurya!” a voice cried from far off.
But Shaurya was still smiling, even as blood trickled down his lips.
“Found you,” he whispered.
That was when Prahlad’s eyes snapped open—truly open.
He dropped the sword.
His body trembled, eyes wide with terror and realization.
“Shaurya?!”
Then everything went black.

---
Hours Later — The Infirmary
A room scented with crushed herbs, glowing softly under moonstone lanterns.
Prahlad awoke slowly, his body aching like fire lived in his bones.
He turned, and saw his mother, Aoi, asleep in a chair. His father stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes weary.
Beside him, in another bed, lay Shaurya—pale, bandaged, but breathing.
“Shaurya…” he whispered, voice cracking.
“I’m awake,” came a soft voice.
Prahlad turned his head sharply. Shaurya, despite his injuries, was sitting up slightly.
“You nearly killed me,” Shaurya chuckled weakly. “That means I’m finally teaching you how to win.”
Prahlad’s eyes filled with tears.
“I… I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Shaurya interrupted. “I know you didn’t.”
A pause.
Prahlad asked, “Did I… become a monster?”
Shaurya looked at the ceiling. “No. You became lost. There’s a difference.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“You asked me once how I stay calm under pressure. Want to know the secret?”
Prahlad nodded faintly.
“I imagine what you’d do. Because even when you’re scared, even when you're confused… you still come back.”
Prahlad looked at him for a long time, then whispered, “I’m scared it’ll happen again.”
“Then I’ll stop you again,” Shaurya said. “That’s what brothers are for.”