Twenty years had passed since the death of Rudra Vael.
The world had changed — kingdoms rose and fell, alliances crumbled, and myths turned to whispers.
But far from the conflicts of the great realms, a little boy lived quietly with his grandfather, Virat.
The boy's name was Rivaan.
Only five years old, Rivaan lived under the stern gaze of a man who never missed a day of training. His grandfather, once a warrior of renown, was relentless.
"This world is cruel, boy. You must be strong to survive."
That's what Virat always told him.
But Rivaan never truly understood what it meant — not yet.
One morning, something in him broke. Tired of drills, bruises, and orders, Rivaan ran.
He slipped away while Virat wasn't looking, disappearing into the depths of the jungle — deeper than he'd ever dared before.
His heart pounded. Leaves brushed his face. The forest was alive, breathing, watching.
And then — he heard it.
A faint, broken cry.
He followed the sound, brushing past vines and mossy stone, until he saw it.
A creature — injured, trembling, its wing torn and bloodied.
A griffith.
Rivaan froze.
The creature tried to crawl away, its golden eyes wide with fear and pain. But something in Rivaan shifted — the fear melted into concern.
He remembered the healing cream Virat had given him the day before, tucked inside his small leather pouch.
Slowly, gently, Rivaan approached.
The griffith didn't fight.
It watched him… and waited.
Rivaan cleaned and bandaged the wound with trembling hands. He whispered to the creature like he did with the stars at night — soft, secret things. And the creature listened.
From that day on, Rivaan returned.
Sometimes with food.
Sometimes with water.
Always with companionship.
For the first time in his short, disciplined life, Rivaan had found something that was his.
A friend.