"यत्र मृत्युः अपि अधीनं, तं स्वराज्यं नृशंसवत्।
परिहासं करोति कालं, रावणो द्वादशाक्षरं॥"
"Where even Death waits for leave to pass,
There stands his empire, cruel and proud.
Who mocks Time with thunderous laugh—
Ravana, whose name the heavens fear aloud."
Beyond the City, Before the Storm
It was not yet dusk, and yet the sky above Lanka had already darkened into a cruel hue — not of twilight, but of something far more ancient. Ashen clouds crawled low, as if tethered to the golden spires of the demon capital, which jutted from the land like jagged obsidian blades.
Kakbhushundi walked through the silent outer limits of the Rakshasa empire. His sandals touched the charred earth without sound. Even the birds avoided this path — except one. A single black raven circled above, its cry unheard, its shadow stretching far ahead of its wings.
The wind held whispers. Of chants and chains. Of gods captured and caged like beasts. The memory of it clung to the air like incense in an unwashed sanctum.
Kakbhushundi reached the **southern wall** of Lanka — or so he thought.
But as he stepped forward to cross the boundary into the forest beyond, his foot struck against... nothing.
Or rather, *something* that shimmered invisibly, like heat above a funeral pyre.
He stepped back, then forward again.
Blocked.
The wind grew heavy, its breath choked with omen.
He closed his eyes.
"So it begins," he murmured, "The wall that is not a wall. The empire that cages time itself."
Behind him, footsteps.
Slow. Weighted. Proud.
A scent rose — of fire, sandalwood, and iron blood.
Kakbhushundi turned.
There, just past the withered fig trees, stood Ravana.
Not merely a king — a storm carved into the shape of a man. His presence cleaved the air like a blade wrapped in thunder. His frame towered, cloaked in armor not made by smiths but summoned by mantras lost to even the gods. His eyes glowed with the fury of a hundred sacrificial pyres. The wind around him did not stir — it bowed.
He was a creature born of tapas and terror, of conquest and cursed glory. His limbs were not just strong — they held the burden of heaven's fear. His face was not merely proud — it was sculpted from an arrogance that had once shaken Kailasa itself.
And now he stood — still, as if eternity had paused to witness him.
His ten heads were hidden, folded like secrets beneath the one he chose to show — calm, sharp-jawed, cruelly serene. He had bound his vastness into this singular self, and that made him all the more terrifying.
He did not speak at once.
He looked at the crow first, and then at the man it circled.
"So," said Ravana, his voice thunderous but not shouting, "even death comes cloaked in feathers these days."
Kakbhushundi smiled faintly.
"Death has no crown, O Dashānana. I come not as death… only as one who sees."
Ravana walked closer, arms folded behind him.
"You tried to leave. Did you think this empire allows such liberties? Here, even the wind asks me before it sighs."
He looked at the shimmering wall with pride.
"A barrier not made of stone or mantra — but of Will. My will. None may cross it uninvited. Not man. Not beast. Not time. Not... prophets in crow feathers."
Kakbhushundi's gaze did not waver.
"Indeed, it is strong. For what is stronger than a king's arrogance? It builds cities faster than armies and topples them quicker than fate."
Ravana chuckled — deep, rumbling.
"You speak in parables, little witness. But I know who you are."
He circled Kakbhushundi like a lion circles a sage.
"The one who hides behind riddles. The crow who speaks of a thousand versions. The seer who dares to show gods their other faces."
"And yet," Kakbhushundi said softly, "you summoned me with your sin."
"I summoned no one," Ravana growled. "I command. And the world obeys."
There was a silence then — long and breathless — until Ravana's voice grew colder.
"You come to speak of fate? Of my death? Shall I tremble, O crow? Shall I beg forgiveness for what has not yet happened?"
Kakbhushundi looked into his burning eyes and spoke with the stillness of a hundred yugas.
"I did not come to speak. But since the earth demands it, I shall whisper only a glimpse."
Ravana folded his arms, intrigued despite himself.
Kakbhushundi stepped forward.
"In one telling," he said, voice slow as Vedic fire, "you die with a divine arrow in your chest, still defiant. In another... you survive. Not as king, but as wanderer. You abandon the throne, the pride, the conquest. You become a silent Rishi on the banks of the Sarayu, where children do not fear your name."
Ravana narrowed his eyes.
"A sage? Me?"
"Yes," Kakbhushundi replied, "And in that world, you chant a name not in mockery, but in revelation."
"Blasphemy," Ravana hissed.
"Truth," Kakbhushundi said, "Or possibility. For all things that begin in fire may end in light."
Ravana turned from him for a moment, looking toward the inner city — where the skies above Lanka roared with imprisoned power. Where the gods, bound and silent, were held in chains of mantra by the Asuras. Yet the sky trembled now — not with fear, but with promise.
Kakbhushundi continued:
"Those you have captured — they shall return. Not in their old forms, but in disguises woven of karma and grace. They shall come not with weapons, but with silence. And their silence shall destroy you."
"You think I fear gods?" Ravana barked.
"No," said the crow-man. "You fear no one. That is your strength... and your ruin."
Ravana looked at him again, quieter now. More calculating.
"Tell me, crow. What do you see now?"
Kakbhushundi's voice dropped like dusk on a battlefield.
"I see a throne of gold cracking from within. I see a brother mourning before he betrays. I see a son falling in fire. I see a queen praying alone. I see a forest burning with your name — and yet, no one calls it victory."
"And me?" Ravana asked, softly.
Kakbhushundi paused.
"You shall die standing. But not proud. For the gods you caged shall walk your land again... as men. And one of them will look into your soul and remind you what you were before you became what you are."
Ravana turned his face to the sky.
"Then let them come."
"They will," Kakbhushundi said, stepping back. "Not as messengers. Not as warriors. But as dharma itself. And when they do, even the wall of will you built shall vanish like mist at sunrise."
For a moment, silence. Even the winds bowed in reverence.
Then Ravana laughed — the laugh of a king who fears nothing but remembers too much.
"Go, crow. Speak your riddles. Unfurl your visions. But know this — even Time must knock before entering Lanka."
Kakbhushundi stepped into the wind.
And this time, the wall parted.
Not for him — but for what followed behind.