Fire!

Fire!

There was fire everywhere.

The flames roared through the eastern wing of the Raj Nivas (Royal Residence), turning the once peaceful halls into a blazing inferno.

Smoke filled the air.

Servants ran through the corridors shouting in panic.

Guards barked orders while dragging frightened women and children toward safety.

“Jaldi! (Quickly!)”

“Save the Maharani (Queen)!”

“The fire is spreading through the Rajmahal (Royal Palace)!”

The entire palace echoed with chaos.

In the center of it all, a little girl sat frozen on the polished floor.

She could not have been more than seven years old.

Tears streamed down her face as she stared at the burning world around her.

Only moments ago, she had been asleep in her chamber.

Now everything was gone.

“Ma…” she whispered.

Her voice trembled.

“Ma!”

A woman rushed through the smoke.

Even in the chaos, she looked graceful—but her face was pale, and her eyes were filled with pain.

“Ma!” the child cried again.

The woman fell to her knees and pulled her into her arms.

The little girl clung tightly to her.

Her mother.

The Maharani (Queen).

But something was wrong.

Her mother was shaking.

And crying.

“Ma… what is happening?” the girl asked.

The Maharani cupped her face gently.

“You must listen carefully.”

The child shook her head.

“No…”

“You must be brave.”

“I don’t want to be brave.”

A loud crash shook the hall.

Part of the ceiling collapsed nearby.

The child screamed, burying her face into her mother’s chest.

The Maharani held her tighter, as if trying to protect her from the whole world.

Outside, the sound of battle grew louder.

Steel clashed.

Men shouted.

Someone screamed in agony.

Then..

The doors burst open.

A man entered.

The child’s eyes widened instantly.

“Pitaji (Father)!”

The Maharaj (King) stepped forward.

His robes were blackened with soot.

There was blood on his arm.

The child reached for him immediately.

“Pitaji, you are hurt!”

He smiled faintly.

“It is nothing.”

But his eyes told a different story.

Tired.

Heavy.

Like he had already lost something he could never recover.

Behind him stood an Angrakshak (Royal Guard), kneeling at once.

“Maharaj.”

The King looked at him for a long moment.

Then spoke in a low voice.

“Take her.”

The child froze.

“What?”

The guard hesitated.

“Maharaj…”

“Take the Rajkumari (Princess) and leave immediately.”

“No!” the child cried, grabbing her father’s robe.

“I won’t go!”

The Maharani turned away, her shoulders trembling.

Tears slipped silently down her face.

The child didn’t understand.

Why were they separating?

Why weren’t they leaving together?

The Maharaj knelt before her.

His hands rested gently on her shoulders.

“My little Rajkumari…”

“No,” she shook her head again.

“You must survive.”

“No!”

“You must live.”

“I don’t want to leave you!”

For a moment, his expression broke.

Pain.

Fear.

Love.

And something deeper.

Regret.

He pulled her into a tight embrace.

He held her like he was trying to remember her forever.

Then he slowly released her.

The Angrakshak stepped forward and lifted her into his arms.

“Protect her,” the Maharaj said firmly.

“With my life,” the guard replied.

The child screamed.

“Ma! Pitaji!”

The Maharani broke completely then, reaching toward her child.

But she did not move.

She could only watch.

The guard turned and ran through the burning corridors.

Smoke filled everything.

The child kept struggling.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

But the guard did not respond.

He only ran faster.

Then....

She saw it.

At the end of a corridor.

A figure stood in the firelight.

Still.

Watching.

A sword flashed.

A scream.

A body fell.

Blood spread across the floor.

The child gasped.

The figure moved again.

Another strike.

Another fall.

Her breathing turned uneven.

“Who…?” Maa....pitaji...!she whispered.

The Angrakshak noticed.

His expression changed instantly.

Fear filled his eyes.

“No…”

He covered her eyes.

“Don’t look, Rajkumari.”

“But—”

“Don’t look.”

A strange scent filled the air.

Bitter.

Sharp.

Unfamiliar.

Her body grew heavy.

Her eyelids drooped.

The sound of fire faded.

The screams faded.

Even the footsteps disappeared.

The last thing she heard was the guard’s voice.

Soft.

Broken.

Almost a prayer.

“Forgive me, Rajkumari.”

Darkness.

Vanshika gasped and sat upright in bed.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

Her heart was pounding.

The room was silent.

Dark.

No fire.

No smoke.

No screams.

Only moonlight falling through the window.

She blinked slowly.

Still breathing heavily.

It was just a dream.

Again.

The same fire.

The same palace.

The same faces she could never fully remember.

She pressed a hand to her forehead.

Her fingers were cold.

Outside, the mountains stood under the night sky.

Still.

Silent.

Vanshika closed her eyes for a moment.

Then slowly exhaled.

Another night like this.

VANSHIKA POV:

I still remember the fire.

Even after waking up, even after convincing myself it’s just a dream, the images never fully leave.

Some nights I forget it for a while… but it always returns.

Like it is waiting for me.

I sat up slowly, pressing my hand against my forehead.

The same dream again.

The burning place.

The crying voices.

And that feeling I can never explain.

I exhaled.

“Just a nightmare,” I told myself, like I always do.

But it never feels like one.

Later that day, I went to work.

After shifting to the hills of Uttarakhand, my life had become quieter.

The air was cleaner here, colder too.

Dehradun had this strange calm...like everything hidden beneath its surface had learned to stay silent.

My job as a forensic historian and researcher kept me surrounded by old things.

Records.

Files.

Stories people forgot.

Or chose to forget.

That day, I was assigned to check an old storage section in the archive building.

Dust. Silence. Rows of forgotten history.

I didn’t think anything of it at first.

Until my eyes stopped.

A book.

It was placed slightly deeper between two heavy records, like it didn’t want to be found.

Something about it felt different.

I pulled it out carefully.

It was thick, much heavier than it looked.

Dust covered it, but not evenly.

Like it had been touched less… or protected more.

The cover wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t just written...it was designed.

Metalwork patterns ran across it, forming symbols I didn’t recognize.

Not decoration.

Something different.

Something old.

I tilted it slightly under the light.

It reflected faintly, even though it looked like it shouldn’t.

“Strange…” I whispered.

Later, I asked the caretaker about it.

He looked uncomfortable the moment I showed him the book.

“That?” he said slowly.

“It’s been here for years. We don’t really know where it came from.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“Experts tried to study it once.”

“And?”

“They couldn’t read it.”

I frowned.

“Language issue?”

He shook his head.

“Not just that. Some of them said they felt unwell after working on it for too long. Headaches. Fever. A few refused to touch it again.”

I stared at the book.

“That sounds like superstition.”

He didn’t argue.

Just sighed.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s better left alone.”

But I was already looking at it differently.

Not fear.

Curiosity.

That always gets me in trouble.

I didn’t take it home immediately.

Work kept me busy for the next few days.

Reports. Documentation. Case reviews.

But the book stayed in my mind.

Quietly.

Like it was waiting.

On the third day, I went back for it.

The caretaker didn’t stop me.

He just gave me a look I couldn’t quite understand.

Almost warning me..."read it at your own risk."

That night, I brought it home.

I recently got shifted here in Mussoorie.

My room in the hills was quiet.

The windows opened toward distant dark mountains.

The air outside was cold enough to silence everything.

I sat at my desk and placed the book in front of me.

For a long time, I just looked at it.

Then I opened it.

The pages were fragile.

Old.

The moment I turned the first page, I froze.

Symbols.

Lines and markings that weren’t any language I had studied.

But my eyes moved over them easily.

Too easily.

I frowned.

“That’s not possible…”

I turned another page.

The same ease.

Like my mind already understood it before I did.

My chest tightened slightly.

“How am I reading this?”

No answer.

Only silence.

Outside, the wind moved gently through the hills.

Hours passed.

I didn’t realize how long I had been sitting there.

Studying.

Reading.

Following patterns that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time.

Then my phone rang.

The sharp sound cut through the silence.

I startled slightly.

My hand slipped as I reached for it.

A sharp edge from the metal design on the book grazed my finger.

I winced.

But I barely noticed it.

Because something else happened first.

Dizziness.

Sudden.

Heavy.

The room tilted slightly, like the world had shifted under me.

I blinked.

The phone kept ringing.

I tried to focus on it, but the sound felt distant.

Like it didn’t belong in the same place anymore.

My breathing slowed.

“What… is happening?”

The book was still open in front of me.

The symbols seemed darker now.

Or maybe my vision was just failing.

I tried to stand.

My legs didn’t respond properly.

A strange pressure filled my ears.

And then....

Voices.

Not from the phone.

Not from outside.

Somewhere else entirely.

“Fire…”

“Fire…!”

“Run!”

“Take her away!”

My breath caught.

I froze.

The room around me began to fade at the edges.

The phone still rang in the background, but even that felt far away now.

The voices grew louder.

More desperate.

“You must live!”

“Don’t look back!”

“Run!”

My hands trembled.

My vision blurred completely.

The book, the desk, the room.....all of it started slipping away like it was dissolving into darkness.

I tried to hold on.

To something.

Anything.

But it was already too late.

The last thing I heard was the voices repeating again.....

“Fire…”

And then everything went blank.

My head hurt.

It felt as though something heavy was pressing against my skull.

For a few moments, I kept my eyes closed, hoping the dizziness would pass.

The last thing I remembered was sitting at my desk.

The ancient book.

The strange symbols.

The phone ringing.

Then....

Darkness.

Slowly, I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me was unfamiliar.

Wooden beams crossed overhead, carved with simple patterns worn smooth by time.

I frowned.

This wasn't my room.

I immediately sat up.

A sharp wave of dizziness hit me, forcing me to steady myself against the bed.

The room around me was large but simple.

A clay lamp rested on a wooden shelf.

Several rolled manuscripts lay neatly stacked in one corner.

A brass water vessel sat beside the bed.

Nothing looked modern.

Nothing looked familiar.

My heartbeat quickened.

"Where am I?"

The words left my lips before I could stop them.

I looked down at myself.

And froze.

The clothes I wore were not mine.

Not even close.

The jeans and sweater I had been wearing were gone.

Instead, I wore soft cotton garments unlike anything I owned.

A light-colored antariya (lower draped garment) was wrapped around me, while an uttariya (upper drape) rested over my shoulder.

The fabric was simple but well-made.

Exactly the kind of clothing I had studied in historical records.

My stomach dropped.

"No..."

I pushed myself off the bed and hurried toward the nearest window.

The moment I looked outside, I stopped breathing.

Mountains.

Endless mountains.

Green valleys stretched beneath the morning mist.

Tall pine trees covered the slopes.

Birds flew between cliffs touched by golden sunlight.

The sight was breathtaking.

Almost heavenly.

For a brief moment, I forgot my fear.

Then reality crashed back into me.

I stepped away from the window.

Did I die?

The thought appeared suddenly.

The book.

Had there been poison on it?

Some ancient fungus?

Had I collapsed?

Was I in a coma?

I pinched my arm.

Hard.

"Ouch!"

Pain.

Real pain.

I stared at my arm.

Definitely not dead.

Definitely not dreaming.

Which somehow made everything worse.

A knock interrupted my thoughts.

Before I could react, the wooden door opened.

A middle-aged woman entered carrying a small brass tray.

She wore a plain cotton saree wrapped simply around her body, with almost no jewelry except a few bangles.

She looked surprised to find me standing.

"Vatsanavi?" she asked.

I blinked.

Vatsanavi?

The name sounded strangely familiar.

The woman hurried forward.

"Arre, Putri (child), you should not be standing."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Neither of us spoke for several moments.

Finally she frowned.

"Kya hua? (What happened?)"

I swallowed.

"I..."

The words caught in my throat.

What was I supposed to say?

Hello, I think I traveled through time?

The woman set the tray down.

"You frightened everyone."

"Everyone?"

She nodded.

"You collapsed during your studies."

Studies?

I looked around again.

The manuscripts.

The room.

The mountains.

Then a distant sound reached my ears.

Voices.

Young voices.

Reciting something in unison.

Almost like students.

The woman noticed my confusion.

"You truly do not remember?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Remember what?

Before I could answer, she sighed.

"I should inform Acharya."

The moment she said that, something about her expression changed.

Respect.

Almost reverence.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left.

The door closed behind her.

I stood there in complete silence.

Acharya.

Teacher.

Head of the Gurukul?

My mind raced.

None of this made sense.

Minutes later, the woman returned.

"Acharya wishes to see you."

I hesitated.

Every instinct told me to demand answers.

But this Acharya might be the only person who could explain what was happening.

So I followed her.

Outside, the sight stole my breath.

Stone pathways wound through the mountainside.

Students dressed in simple garments walked between wooden halls.

Some practiced archery.

Others sat beneath trees reciting lessons.

The entire Gurukul seemed woven into nature itself.

It was beautiful.

Ancient.

Alive.

And impossible.

Eventually we reached a modest wooden chamber.

The woman stopped outside.

"Acharya is waiting."

I nodded nervously.

Then stepped inside.

An elderly man sat cross-legged near an open window.

His white hair fell to his shoulders.

The moment I entered, his eyes lifted to meet mine.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

His gaze was calm.

Too calm.

Almost as though he had been expecting me.

Then he gestured toward a cushion before him.

"Aao, Putri (Come, child)."

His voice was gentle.

"Baitho. (Sit.)"

I hesitated before slowly taking a seat.

The Acharya studied me quietly.

Not in the way a stranger would.

Not even in the way a teacher would look at a student.

It felt as though he was searching for something.

Or perhaps confirming it.

Finally, a faint smile appeared on his face.

"Kaisa lagta hai tumhe yah Gurukul? (How do you find this Gurukul?)"

The question caught me completely off guard.

Of all the things I expected him to ask, that wasn't one of them.

I glanced toward the open window.

The mountains stretched endlessly beneath the morning sky.

The sound of students reciting lessons drifted through the air.

"It's beautiful," I admitted.

The smile on his face deepened slightly.

"As beautiful as before."

Before?

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, he slowly rose to his feet and walked toward the window.

The mountain breeze stirred the edge of his robes.

For a few moments, he simply looked outside.

Then he spoke.

"Samaya Chakra ne antatah tumhe is samaya tak pahuncha hi diya."

(The Cycle of Time has finally brought you to this age.)

My body went still.

I stared at him.

The old man continued as though speaking of something long expected.

"Kuch yatraein samapt nahi hoti."

(Some journeys never truly end.)

"Kuch kartavya samayie ke saath vilupt nahi hote."

(Some duties do not disappear with the passing of time.)

My heartbeat quickened.

I didn't understand.

Yet somehow his words felt important.

Dangerously important.

I stood abruptly.

"What are you talking about?"

The Acharya turned toward me.

There was kindness in his eyes.

But there was something else too.

Relief.

As though a burden he had carried for years had finally become lighter.

Then he spoke softly.

"Vanshika..."

The sound of my name made me freeze.

How did he know?

A gentle smile appeared on his face.

"A beautiful name."

I could barely breathe.

"But in this Samaya Chakra..."

His gaze held mine.

"...you are known as Vatsanavi."

The room suddenly felt smaller.

My thoughts became a tangled mess.

How did he know my name?

Who was Vatsanavi?

What was this place?

And what exactly was the Samaya Chakra?

Before I could ask another question, the Acharya spoke once more.

"Rest, Putri."

His voice was calm.

"The answers you seek cannot be given all at once."

Then he turned toward the mountains again.

Leaving me with only one terrifying realization.

The Acharya already knew who I was.

And somehow...

He had been waiting for me.