The clash of metal shattered the morning stillness. Emerald blades of dew-drenched grass blurred under running feet, the air thick with the smell of churned earth and iron blood. Nayana couldn’t stop moving; unsteady breaths raked her ribs as she sprinted past the smoldering wreckage of a village. The floral patterns on her silk chaniya choli—a hue of fuchsia and saffron twined together in intricate blooms—were now streaked with ash and mud. The short-sleeved blouse hugged her lithe frame, its vibrant embroidery catching glimmers of sunlight filtering through the smoke. Her multi-layered skirt flared with every desperate turn, the golden ankle bells sewn into its hem jingling faintly with her steps. Around her neck hung an ornate pearl necklace, tracing the sharp line of her collarbone, its weight unfamiliar and damning.
The artifact wasn’t supposed to work like this. Nayana clenched the mirror tightly against her side, its cool, smooth frame pressing into her palm. In the reflected bronze of its surface, she could still see the chaos unfolding behind her—the burning fields, the soldiers in their scarlet armor, the sharp points of spears stained dark. Each time they drew closer, the mirror rippled, showing her jagged glimpses of the disaster she would rather not see. This treasure, this so-called “blessing” of her village, was supposed to protect them. Instead, it had tethered her to their doom.
“She has it! Stop her!” a guttural voice bellowed, loud enough to shake the crows indignantly from their charred perches. Nayana stumbled into the hollow of a banyan tree, barely managing to muffle the clink of her jewelry as she sank into the shadows. Her chest heaved, fingers clutching the mirror even tighter. Her mind raced back—or rather, snapped like a string—to the moment it all began.
The council had summoned her three nights ago. Nayana, the village outlier whose charm hid cunning; whose sharp wit cut deeper than a scythe; whose laughter in the flowered fields made the weavers call her spirit untamed. She wasn’t the eldest, nor a priestess, and not yet a mother—a woman whose life belonged only to herself in a village full of rules and walls. Yet it was Nayana they chose, handing her the mirror with trembling fingers.
“You’re the one the goddess seeks,” one of the matrons said, her voice breaking under the weight of prophecy. “Take it, and be our shield.” There was fear in their eyes, something she would not comprehend until it was too late.
“Why me?” Nayana whispered, even as her hands reached out, defiant curiosity overriding caution. She hung the mirror on a chain around her neck, its cool surface settling uneasily against her heart. On the back, etched in floral spirals like the sari patterns of her childhood, were the words: *Through the mirror, seek the truth—or invite the storm.*
The storm had come the very next dawn. She realized too late that the mirror didn’t shield—it revealed. It showed allies as traitors. It exposed not bravery, but fear. The raiders had breached the village gates because of her reflection in that monstrous mirror. It was the truth they were chasing. And now, she was running from it.
Shouting grew louder outside the banyan hollow. Nayana pressed her forehead to her knees, willing herself silent. But beneath her trembling frame, she noticed an odd sensation—warmth radiating from the mirror. Against her better judgment, she allowed herself to glance at its surface. For the first time, it wasn’t showing the present or the past. It reflected something else entirely.
It showed her standing on the edge of a vast lotus pond, endless blossoms stretching to the horizon. A figure in white robes and golden ornaments awaited her by the water, their face obscured in brilliant sunlight, arm extended toward her. The vision pulled at her chest like a tether. She thought for a moment that the pond could erase the blood, the smoke, the screams.
And then she noticed the scarlet spears on the shore, the mirrored figure crumpling into the water, a dozen arrows piercing her back.
“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. The image warped and shimmered out of sight, leaving only her reflection—mud-streaked, wild-eyed, her colorful attire shredded around the edges. If the mirror only showed truth, was this her future? Was it unavoidable?
The villagers had called her untamed, but fear had never been as loud in her ribs as it was now. Still, Nayana pushed herself to her feet, her grip firm on the mirror. There was no one left to trust except herself. Perhaps not even herself. But if prophecy demanded she carry this burden, she would do so on her own terms.
Pushing aside the curtains of banyan roots, Nayana emerged into a clearing. Smoke still painted the horizon, but a path wound toward the mountains, away from the soldiers’ cries. She turned toward it, weaving the mirror’s chain securely around her waist this time, where it couldn’t betray her reflection so easily.
As she began walking, her bells jingling faintly with every step, she wondered whether she could outrun not just the past, but also the storms that lay ahead. Till now, the mirror had shown her fear. Perhaps it was time to show it courage instead.
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