The illusions clung to Svetavastra like cobwebs in an abandoned hall, fragile yet persistent, veiling the truth in silken threads of deceit. He tried to focus on his breath to ground himself, yet the flurry of twisted memories from his past was like a barrage that swept him sway without any anchor. He clutched his head with his two hands as if trying to physically stop the flood of memories in his mind.

Thousands of harrowing cries for help echoed in his head, shrill and jagged, like nails scraping against raw nerves. Each plea clawed at him, leaving a phantom ache in his chest, while the sheer weight of their despair pressed down as if the air had thickened and turned to stone. The noise wasn't just heard—it reverberated through his very core, a suffocating storm of agony he could neither silence nor escape.

“No-god God! No-god God!” The preta in the bracer cried out.

“Sveta!” The cosmic self shouted in apprehension.

Their persistent pleas somehow got to Svetavastra and he found himself focusing on their voices. After a while, he could control the incessant voices in his head.

“I’m fine,” he said at last.

“How to beat these illusions, No-god God?” asked the preta.

“I need to focus on the Divine Bow,” said Svetavastra. “These illusions are but distractions.”

Svetavastra moved closer, his boots scuffing against the stone floor, the echo swallowed by the silence. He stopped at the edge of the abyss, peering down into the unfathomable darkness below with his mind’s eye. His stomach twisted, a gnawing emptiness settling there. Without his powers, he couldn't possibly reach it. Even if he leapt, the bow was far, too far, beyond the reach of mere flesh and bone. He clenched his fists, his fingers trembling.

Svetavastra let his mind’s eye rest on the bow, his thoughts drifting, searching for meaning. He stared into the abyss, its darkness absolute, but then—a flicker. A faint, golden shimmer danced on the edge of the void, fleeting and fragile, like a star on the verge of winking out.

The sight struck something deep within him, stirring an echo of recognition. The shimmer rippled through his mind, pulling at the edges of a buried memory. His surroundings blurred, the cold chamber dissolving into warmth and sunlight, and suddenly, he was back in the celestial gardens.

Young Atisha stood there, her adolescent frame taut with frustration, her brow furrowed, her hands trembling as she tried, yet again, to summon her divine bow. Her face was flushed with effort, eyes were glistening, her lips set in a determined line. Lord Chitravaan stood nearby, his blue robes flowing like the waters of a quiet stream, his presence calm and unyielding.

"I don’t understand," Atisha’s voice broke, tight with emotion, her breath coming in ragged gasps from the exertion. "Yesterday I could call it forth so easily. Why won’t it come now?"

Lord Chitravaan came closer to her, his gaze kind, filled with a patient warmth. "Because yesterday, you weren’t trying to summon it at all. You were thinking only of getting the child her toy cart.”

Atisha shook her head, her frustration mingling with confusion.

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"But I’m still that person, Tatha!”

Chitravaan’s smile softened. He reached out, gently touching her shoulder.

"Do you? Or do you want to prove you can summon the bow?”

Atisha fell silent, her eyes dropping to the ground, her face troubled.

"Little one," Lord Chitravaan’s voice was a gentle murmur, "cosmic weapons aren’t tools to be commanded. They are manifestations of pure intention. When your heart knows its true purpose with absolute clarity, they appear naturally, like breath, like thought."

He gestured around them, the lush gardens, the vibrant flowers, the serene waters of the fountain.

"Consider the bow. It doesn’t care about hitting targets or proving its worth. It exists to restore what was lost, to right what was wronged. When you summoned it that day, you weren’t thinking about power or ability. You were thinking only of a child’s tears and a promise that had to be kept."

“So, it won’t come unless I make a promise to someone?” asked Atisha.

“A single-minded focus on serving,” said Lord Chitravaan, “a clarity that is all encompassing. Tempered with a compassionate heart.”

Atisha blinked.

“Can you make a promise of that to me?” said Lord Chitravaan.

Atisha nodded.

“I promise you, Lord Chitravaan, overseer of the Heavenly Affairs,” said Atisha in a solemn voice, her hands trembling but steadying with each word, “that I, who is named Atisha, the boundless one, will in this lifetime, make it my calling to serve this world and protect all its beings with a compassionate heart.”

As the words left her lips, the air around them seemed to still, as if the garden itself was listening. The faint rustling of leaves paused, the flowers around her lifting their petals toward the light, basking in a warmth that wasn’t there moments ago. A soft golden glow began to emanate from the ground beneath her feet, spreading outward in ripples, touching each blade of grass, each petal of every bloom.

Lord Chitravaan stood silent, his serene face transformed with quiet awe, his normally calm eyes reflecting the golden glow. He inclined his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, his hands clasped behind his back tightening just a fraction—a rare, unspoken gesture of respect.

The fountain in the distance shimmered, its waters dancing as though moved by an unseen force, catching the light in a kaleidoscope of gold and blue. A soft hum filled the air, resonating from nowhere and everywhere, the tone rich and harmonious, vibrating through the garden like a celestial note struck from some divine chord.

When Atisha opened her eyes, the golden bow had manifested in her hands, its radiant light reflecting the clarity and resolve now etched into her features. For a moment, the glow brightened, illuminating not only her but Lord Chitravaan and the garden itself, before settling into a gentle, steady light.

“Well done,” Lord Chitravaan said at last, his voice quieter than usual, tinged with the barest hint of emotion. "Now, you understand."The memory faded, and Svetavastra found himself standing once more at the edge of the void. The cold returned, pressing in on him, but now there was something else—a warmth spreading through his chest, a sense of understanding.

The bow wasn’t a prize, not a weapon to be claimed, not a tool to be mastered. It was a promise made manifest—a vow to protect, to restore, to make things right. The bow’s power lay not in strength, not in conquest, but in the purity of intention.

Svetavastra closed his eyes. He let the tension drain from his body, the thoughts of reaching, of leaping, of proving himself all fading away. He thought of the refugees fleeing the encroaching darkness, their eyes hollow with despair. He thought of the temples shattered, their sanctity desecrated, of the empty, abandoned homes. The dying embers of faith in the hearts of his people. He thought of what had been stolen from them—not just their lands, their homes, their sanctuaries—but their hope, their belief that the world could still be made right.

And as he stood there, at the edge of the void, in that moment of perfect clarity, his heart knew its purpose. He felt it—the cosmic essence stirring, responding to the purity of his intention, rising within him like a tide. The bow shimmered, a ripple running along its golden length.

—

Tatha - an affectionate way to say, grandfather