WHEN GODS AWAKEN

The city had long forgotten them.

In narrow alleys and crumbling ruins, whispers lingered—fragments of prayers, remnants of devotion, echoes of gods erased from memory. Once, they had ruled hearts and minds, shaping kingdoms, guiding mortals with their power. Now, their names were dust, their temples hollow, their followers gone.

But the gods do not disappear. They sleep. They wait. And sometimes… they choose a vessel.

Mohit was just a boy when the first whispers found him. He did not know it at the time, but the fragments of forgotten gods stirred in the shadows, drawn to him like a moth to flame. They had watched him grow, unseen, testing him in small ways—guiding his instincts, whispering in dreams, nudging him toward choices he could not yet understand.

On the night the storm came, the city slept unaware. But Mohit did not. Something inside him had awakened—a pulse of power, a heartbeat of an ancient god calling through time. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly alive.

The world he had known—the streets, the ruins, the quiet corners of the city—was about to change. The shadows he had always ignored now moved with purpose. The wind carried whispers of forgotten names. And the rain that soaked the cobblestones was not water alone, but the first taste of a storm that would reshape everything.

The Rememberers had sensed it. Their silent patrols, their wards, their hidden eyes—they knew a force was rising. A boy, a vessel, carrying more power than any of them had seen in centuries.

The city slept. But Mohit’s journey had begun. And when the forgotten gods stir, nothing remains the same.

The first fragment called. And with it, the storm would awaken.