The stars above Devbhoomi flickered brighter on the night of the boy’s birth, and the mountains held their breath. But far from the village, where Kartik slept cradled in warmth, an older silence stirred beneath the earth.

  At the edge of the forest, hidden behind a waterfall veiled in moonlight, was the entrance to KalGarh—a sacred chamber carved into the mountain itself. Few knew of it. Even fewer dared speak its name. This was the place where the Elders of the Rawat Clan gathered when the bloodline stirred with prophecy.

  There were twelve stone seats arranged in a circle, each tied to a branch of the Rawat clan, founded long ago by a name no longer taught in schools: Kesar Singh Rawat.

  Not a king.

  Not a conqueror.

  A guardian.

  He had once walked the lands when temples were young, when rivers still sang to the skies, and the world knew the balance between sword and silence. Kesar Singh Rawat had made a vow—to protect the twelve truths of Dharma entrusted to his line. He divided his power into twelve branches, each sworn to protect a piece of that ancient flame.

  But time swallowed truth.

  War erased memory.

  And now, only legends whispered the names of the Twelve True Bloodlines—said to be dead, or worse, forgotten.

  The chamber was lit by ghee lamps that never went out. Stone cracked under the weight of time, and yet, the symbols etched in the walls glowed faintly—ancient script that only the Rawats could read.

  Nine seats were filled. Three remained cold and empty.

  Baba Devdutt, the elder of elders, sat with the weight of centuries in his eyes. In his lap, wrapped in red silk, was a bronze ring—the Ring of Kesar Singh—carved with the twelve crests of the bloodlines.

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  He stood slowly and spoke into the firelight.

  “Kartik Rawat is not just a child. His soul carries the rhythm of something old… something once buried.”

  Rawat Bhairav leaned forward from his stone seat, voice sharp as ever.

  “We have waited centuries, Devdutt. Many signs have come and gone. Why is this one different?”

  The elder held up the ring. The metal shimmered faintly.

  “The night he was born, three crests began to glow again. The Bhilangana. The Tunga. The Vanarasura. All believed extinct.”

  A stunned silence fell.

  “They were wiped out in the betrayal of the Northern Hills,” said another voice. “Their children were lost.”

  Baba Devdutt shook his head.

  “Lost… not gone. Hidden. Protected. Asleep beneath layers of time. And now, this boy has awakened something.”

  Rawati Devi, one of the ancient veiled sisters, stepped forward with slow grace.

  “In the old scrolls, it is said that when the blood of all twelve lines touches the earth again, the founder’s flame will stir. I have seen the flame in Kartik’s breath.”

  Another elder whispered, “We must prepare.”

  But Bhrigunath—the giant, forest-born protector of the clan—spoke in his gravelled voice:

  “If the Twelve Bloodlines awaken… so will their enemies. The ones who hunted us once will return. But if we wait, the child may be swallowed by the same world that forgot us.”

  No votes were cast.

  No words of finality spoken.

  Each elder stepped forward, one by one, and placed their right palm on the stone altar of Kesar Singh. When they did, their ancestral sigils briefly glowed—some strong, some flickering, one or two barely visible.

  Then, for the first time in over two hundred years, three empty seats flickered with blue flame.

  The ancestors were listening again.

  “Then let it be recorded,” said Baba Devdutt. “Kartik Rawat is the Bridge. The heir not of one bloodline, but of all. The protector born not to rule—but to remember.”

  Kartik stirred in his sleep.

  He did not know of the fire under the hills.

  He did not yet understand why the wind whispered secrets to him.

  But a soft blue glow rose on his forehead—the founder’s mark. Just for a second.

  And far, far away, deep in forgotten lands, those thought dead opened their eyes again.

  The Bloodlines live.

  The Rawats rise again.

  And destiny begins to turn its gaze toward the child of Devbhoomi.