EMPIRE OF THE CASTAWAYS

Chapter 7: Song of the Twelve Nations

Ravindra 

Dawn when Ravindra left the cave was pale orange, the kind of orange that only appears after a great storm clears the air of all dust and moisture. Sky looked higher somehow, more vast, like the world had expanded in its sleep. Snow accumulated during three days of storm now gleamed beneath morning light, perfect untouched surface, a white canvas stretching as far as eyes could see.

Ravindra moved through snow with steps learned over years, foot landing flat, weight distributed, leaving minimal tracks. He wore double layers of bear fur, hood pulled low covering most of his face, only gray eyes visible scanning terrain with vigilance never sleeping. Training staff left in cave, replaced with easier-to-hide knife at waist and handful of sharp stones in pocket, simple but effective weapons if needed.

Auratigris had given directions before he left, deep voice echoing in still-dark cave. "Iron Valley lies three hours journey toward sunrise, following ridge until you see smoke from chimneys. That village is small, maybe a hundred souls, mostly miners and their families. They search for iron and copper ore inside mountains, selling to traders who come monthly from lowlands. Hard people, but not fighters. They survive by working, not warring." Brief pause, then more serious addition. "Don't get too close. Don't speak to anyone. If seen, run. Don't risk anything for curiosity."

Ravindra had nodded, accepting instructions as he accepted all instructions from the guardian, with full attention and no unnecessary questions. He understood risks. He understood consequences. But he also understood it was impossible to fight enemies you didn't understand, and to understand humans, he had to see them in their natural habitat, not just as slave hunters who came to mountains to die.

The three-hour journey turned out longer than expected because fresh snow made terrain harder. Ravindra had to navigate through areas where snow piled waist-high, where each step was struggle against weight and cold trying to pull him down. But he kept moving, breath emerging in regular rhythm, muscles working with efficiency from endless training. Sun rose higher, transforming pale orange into cold yellow that brought no warmth but brought enough light to see terrain details previously hidden in shadow.

When he finally saw smoke, sun had reached highest point in sky, rare clearly visible midday position in Frostreach. Smoke rose from several points, thin gray lines rising straight before wind carried them sideways, spreading into mist covering the small valley below. Ravindra stopped at ridge edge, kneeling behind large rock formation providing wind shelter and perfect observation point.

The village was smaller than he imagined. Maybe twenty buildings, mostly simple wooden cabins with heavy slate roofs, built low to ground to withstand mountain wind. Streets, if they could be called that, were just trampled paths between buildings, now covered in snow but still visible from small depressions in surface. On one village side, a larger structure stood with tall chimney emitting thickest smoke, probably smelting facility where ore was processed into metal. On the other side, mine entrance visible like black wound in mountainside, with small rails extending out carrying carts.

But what caught Ravindra's attention wasn't buildings. It was people.

They moved between cabins with clear purpose, each busy with their own tasks. Large men with thick beards and clothes blackened by mine dust carried heavy sacks on backs, walking with heavy steps toward smelting structure. Women with thick scarves covering heads carried buckets, maybe water or food, moving from cabin to cabin. And there, in more sheltered area near village center, children.

Ravindra felt something tighten in his chest when he saw them. There were four, maybe five children, ranging from what looked six years old to maybe twelve. They played in snow, building something that looked like small fort, their laughter faintly audible even from this distance, carried by wind occasionally blowing his direction. They wore clothes better than his, though clearly already worn and patched many times. They moved with carelessness from never having to worry about predators or falling or dying from cold.

They were normal children. Children with families, with homes, with futures not involving killing to survive.

Ravindra didn't know what he felt seeing them. Not envy, not exactly. Not hatred either. Maybe some kind of curiosity mixed with painful awareness that he could never be like them. He was already too different, already too changed by Frostreach and Auratigris and choices he made. Or choices made for him.

He observed longer, noting details. How men communicated with gestures more than words, economy of movement from those who worked with bodies for living. How women moved in groups, never alone, always in pairs or threes, unspoken safety system in small community in dangerous place. How children were called inside when sun began setting, loud voices carrying tone of authority but also warmth, something foreign to Ravindra's ears that only ever heard instructions from guardian.

When dusk began turning sky dark purple, Ravindra saw something that made him move closer, breaking Auratigris's instructions about safe distance. From the largest building in village center, which was probably some kind of communal hall, light began shining brighter. Door opened and people began gathering, men and women and children, all moving toward light and warmth. Ravindra could hear sound rising from within, sound of many people talking at once, then something else. Music.

He moved closer, leaving rock formation safety, using long shadows cast by buildings to cover his movement. Heart beat faster, not from fear but from anticipation and adrenaline. He knew this was foolish. He knew Auratigris would be angry. But he had to know. Had to see.

He reached communal building wall, pressing against side where there were no windows, then slowly moved to corner where he could see inside through small gap between imperfectly fitted wooden boards. Interior warm with large fire in stone hearth, scattered candlelight throughout room giving soft yellow light making everything look friendlier. People sat on long benches or floor, holding steaming bowls, eating and talking with volume saying this was daily ritual, not special event.

And at room front, an old man with long white hair and beard touching chest held musical instrument Ravindra had never seen before, some kind of wooden box with strings he plucked with fingers, creating sound both melodic and sad. The man began singing, old voice but still strong, and one by one others joined, their voices uniting in song they'd clearly sung often.

Ravindra didn't understand all words, their language was Ruskan dialect mixed with something else, but he caught fragments, meaning pieces scattered among melody. The song told of twelve nations, of gods who divided the world, of war that burned skies and sank islands. Of guardians called to serve, of pacts made with blood and fire. Of lost golden age and iron age they now lived.

Verse by verse, story unfolded. Of Ameris ruling western seas with countless fleets. Of Ruska whose armies could walk on ice and breathe in blizzards. Of Zhonghai with sky dragons breathing lightning. Of Gallier and knightly honor becoming arrogance. Of eleven other nations, each with strengths and weaknesses, each with guardians and territories and ambitions.

But what made Ravindra freeze, what stopped his breath in throat, was the final verse. Verse sung softer, almost whisper, like dangerous secret to speak too loud.

"But there was a thirteenth, in sea and in sky, Who refused the chains, who chose cold and lonely high, At world's peak he hides, far from sight, Waiting for day when the rejected will rise with light."

The song ended in silence feeling heavy with meaning. Then a young woman spoke, voice clear in quiet. "That's just fairy tale, story to make children sleep. There's no thirteenth guardian. Twelve is enough to divide the world."

The old man smiled, but smile didn't reach eyes looking too old for his face. "Fairy tales exist because of truth. And truth is world isn't perfectly divided. There are those who fall in cracks. Those who have no place in twelve suns." He stared at fire, as if seeing something in flames others couldn't see. "And sometimes, those who fall in cracks are most dangerous."

Conversation shifted to other topics, complaints about ore getting harder to find, plans for spring when traders would come again, small stories about daily harsh but predictable life. But Ravindra no longer listened. He retreated from wall, moving back to shadows, mind spinning with what he'd just heard.

They knew. Somehow, even in this small remote village, they knew about Auratigris. Maybe not details, maybe only as myth, but they knew there was something at peak that shouldn't exist. Guardian who refused. The thirteenth.

The question was, how many others knew? How many considered it fairy tale, and how many believed? And most important, if they knew about Auratigris, did they also know about him?

Ravindra moved quickly now, leaving village behind, climbing back to ridge with more urgent steps. Sun had long set when he reached initial rock formation, and by then sky was already dark with stars shining with brightness only possible at this altitude. He didn't stop to admire, just kept moving, following tracks he made that morning now almost covered by fresh falling snow.

The return journey took longer because of darkness and exhaustion. Ravindra's muscles protested each step, but he forced them to keep moving, ignoring pain and cold beginning to creep despite thick fur layers. His mind kept returning to the song, to words about thirteenth, to how village people spoke of cracks in world where unwanted fell.

He was one who fell in that crack. Rejected before he could even speak, cast into snow to die. And Auratigris, guardian who refused to be enslaved, also fell in same crack. Two anomalies finding each other in most unlikely place.

But now he wondered, were there others like them? Were there in other places, other world corners, other cast-out children? Other refusing guardians? Were they alone in their rejection, or was there entire hidden world of those who didn't fit in order made by dead gods?

The cave finally appeared like dark mouth in cliff face, and Ravindra almost cried from relief. He entered, legs stumbling at threshold, and immediately welcomed by warmth making his skin tingle as blood began flowing back to nearly frozen extremities.

Auratigris raised her head from warm stone, blue and gold eyes glowing in darkness. "You were longer than you should be."

"I heard something." Ravindra fell sitting on nearest stone, pulling down hood and letting small fire heat seep into his bones. "They sang a song. About twelve nations. About you."

Silence. Then Auratigris stood, moving closer, great head lowering so their eyes were level. "Tell me. Everything."

And Ravindra told. About village, about people, about children playing fearlessly. About communal hall and song and words speaking of thirteenth at world peak. About how old man spoke of cracks where unwanted fell.

When he finished, Auratigris sat back, eyes staring at fire with unreadable expression. "So they still remember. After all these years, they still remember." There was something in that voice, mixture of satisfaction and sadness. "Perhaps that's good. Perhaps world needs reminding there are those who refuse to be divided, who refuse to be forced into boxes made by others."

"What does this mean for us?" Ravindra asked, voice tired but still full of need to understand.

"It means," Auratigris answered softly, "when your time comes to descend from this mountain, you won't be alone. There will be those who recognize the story. Who remember the song. And some of them might choose to stand with you, not against you." Blue and gold eyes shifted from fire to Ravindra. "But it also means your enemies will know you're coming. They'll be ready. They'll be afraid. And fear makes people dangerous."

Ravindra nodded, too tired to speak more. He lay on his warm stone, letting body slowly relax, muscle by muscle releasing tension from long dangerous day. But even as he drifted toward sleep, mind still spinning with the song, with words about thirteenth and world cracks.

And he wondered, in darkness before dreams took over, whether one day he would create his own crack. Crack large enough for all rejected to enter. Place where twelve suns couldn't reach, where old rules didn't apply, where nameless could become something new.

The thirteenth nation. Varunai.

And that night, when he finally slept with the song still echoing in his mind, Ravindra dreamed not of mountains or snow, but of something far larger. He dreamed of a banner with thirteen suns, where the thirteenth wasn't crossed out but blazing brightest of all. He dreamed of voices joining his, thousands upon thousands, all singing the same oath in languages he didn't know but somehow understood.

He dreamed of the day when the rejected would no longer hide in cracks, but would tear the cracks wide open until the whole world fell through.

And in the corner of the cave, Auratigris watched him sleep with ancient eyes that had seen empires rise and fall like waves. She knew what was beginning. She had seen the spark ignite in those steel-gray eyes, the same spark that once burned in her own when she refused the chains.

The child was no longer just surviving. He was beginning to imagine. And imagination, the guardian knew, was far more dangerous than any weapon she could teach him to wield.

Tomorrow, the training would continue. He would learn to fight harder, think sharper, move faster. But tonight, in the space between waking and dreams, something else had been born.

Not just anger. Not just vengeance.

Vision.

And vision, when carried by someone with nothing left to lose, could reshape the world itself.

The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a silence so complete it felt like the world was holding its breath. And perhaps it was. Perhaps even the mountains sensed what was coming, what was slowly being forged in their frozen heart.

A boy who would become a man. A man who would become a legend. A legend who would become an empire.

But that was still years away. For now, Ravindra was still just a child of ten winters, sleeping in a cave at the world's edge, dreaming dreams too large for his small frame to contain.

Yet Auratigris knew, with the certainty of one who had lived through ages, that some dreams refuse to be contained. They grow. They spread. They consume everything in their path until reality itself bends to accommodate them.

And this dream, born in rejection and nursed on winter's cruelty, watered with blood and forged in Aether's fire, would be the kind that nations feared.

Because it wasn't the dream of a hero seeking glory.

It was the dream of an outcast seeking justice.

And the world had already proven, time and again, that it didn't know the difference between justice and vengeance until both came knocking at its door.

The wind picked up again, whistling through Frostreach's peaks with a sound like distant singing. And if one listened carefully, very carefully, one might hear in that wind the first notes of a song that hadn't been sung in a thousand years.

The song of the thirteenth.

The song of the storm.

The song of empire rising from ash.