The sky above Vaishali was cracked and silent — a dusty dome that hadn't cried a drop in two years.
Once a land of flowing rivers, fragrant rice paddies, and vibrant festivals, Vaishali had become a ghost of its former self. The soil had turned to powder. The wells coughed up mud. The birds no longer sang at dawn. Even the wind had forgotten how to dance.
But in a forgotten corner of this dying kingdom, where even the gods seemed to look away, lived a girl who still remembered how to hope.
Her name was Anaya.
She was born during the last rainfall the village had seen — the same night the sky bled red under the blood moon. Her mother, a local herbalist, whispered through cracked lips, "She is our sign. She is the one." Then she closed her eyes forever, leaving the newborn in the hands of an old midwife and a half-broken world.
Now seventeen, Anaya was as much a part of the village as the dying banyan tree at its center — worn, rooted, and somehow still standing.
The villagers called her Devi ki beti — "daughter of the goddess" — not because she was divine, but because she was the only one who fed others when she herself hadn't eaten.
Each morning, with the first weak rays of sunlight, Anaya rose from her straw mat, filled a cracked clay pot with water from the nearest stream — a two-hour walk — and returned to cook thin rice gruel using dried herbs she'd foraged or traded.
She always made extra.
For the old man with no teeth, the widow with two children, and the boy whose parents had vanished last harvest. Her hut was small, her pot smaller, but somehow, there was always a little left.
When someone asked how she never ran out, she'd just smile and say:
"When you feed with love, the pot listens."
Her stomach often grumbled louder than the birds, but she never showed it. Her body had grown thin, her cheeks sunken — but her eyes remained alive, always scanning for someone who needed more than she did.
That day, as she returned from the stream, she heard whispers in the dusty village square.
"The merchant's son is back..."
"They say he brought carts full of rice from the capital."
"He's charging silver coins for one sack."
Anaya paused. Her heart skipped.
Rice. Real rice. Her village hadn't seen proper grain in months.
But the idea of buying it was laughable. The only silver she'd ever held was a trinket from her mother — and she had long ago traded it for medicine for someone else.
Still… she couldn't ignore the children crying in the huts around her. If this merchant's son had food, maybe—just maybe—he'd listen.
She wiped the dust from her face, adjusted her torn shawl, and walked toward the merchant square.
She had never seen the granary palace before — a monstrous stone building stacked with sacks of grain taller than trees. Servants with fat bellies guarded the gates. Inside, sitting on a cushioned bench beneath a carved canopy, was a young man surrounded by food he did not need.
He wore crimson robes, gold rings, and an air of detached boredom. His skin was smooth, untouched by sun or struggle. His eyes — sharp and calculating — scanned each buyer like a ledger.
This was Yuvan.
Anaya stepped forward, barefoot and dust-covered. She bowed lightly.
"My name is Anaya. I come from the southern edge of the village. We have no coin, but we can work. Please… just a little rice. For the children. For the elders."
Yuvan looked at her for a long moment. His brows furrowed, not in pity — but confusion.
"No coin," he said flatly. "Then no grain."
"I'll cook for your workers. I'll clean your stores. Anything—"
"And you'll feed everyone in your dying village with that?" he scoffed. "Your charity will starve you."
Anaya met his gaze — not with defiance, but calm clarity.
"If I starve feeding others… then my hunger has purpose."
For the first time in his life, Yuvan had no answer.
And for the first time, the gods leaned in just a little closer.
Two hands — one empty, one full. One giving, one guarding. But fate does not choose sides.
It only waits… to see who lets go first.