The first gray light of dawn still clung to the misty tea bushes when a lone figure emerged from the forest's edge. A thin, sharp-eyed woman, cheeks sunken from years of hardship, cradled a small bundle to her chest. Behind her, a broad-shouldered man followed in silence, the heaviness in his steps contrasting the stillness of the Periyar hills. His weathered face betrayed nothing—but his clenched jaw told of pain he dared not speak.
They walked swiftly, weaving through the tea rows that shimmered with dew. Their steps left no mark, as if the mists themselves chose to hide them.
At the lip of the Munnar foothills, where pine shadows met the endless stretch of green, the woman stopped. Her eyes scanned the horizon—no birdsong, only the rustle of tension in the leaves.
"This is where it ends," she whispered, lowering the bundle to the forest floor—no blanket, only the soft mulch of old coconut leaves.
Years Later…
The hills of Munnar were alive with the sounds of birds and flowing wind. A boy darted through the thickets with a grin that could light a raincloud. Karikalan Mannan, now seven, moved like he was born from the mountain itself—barefoot, skin bronze from sun and dust, hair wild and free.
His breath came easy. The hills were his playground. His cave—hidden behind a split boulder too small for grown men to crawl through—was his kingdom. Every root, vine, and echo belonged to him.
He lived with his tribe, a small band of thirty Mannan people who foraged, danced under the stars, and whispered of spirits in the woods. But Karikalan never quite fit.
"Your eyes, child," the old priestess of the village once said. "They burn like firewood soaked in ghee. You're not… a Mannan, are you?"
He would only shrug, flash a cheeky smile, and say, "I'm what I choose to be."
Karikalan knew the hills around Munnar as well as he knew his own breath. Each dawn, he slipped past his small tribal settlement—no more than thirty Mannan souls—and raced through the tea bushes until he reached his favorite cave. Its narrow slit in the rock was the only place he could hide, the one corner of the world where he felt safe.
That morning, Karikalan woke before sunrise to bird calls he hadn't heard before—sharp and urgent. He climbed out of the cave and dashed toward the village, heart pounding. Smoke curled above distant pines. As he rounded a cluster of tall Nilgiris pines, he saw his home in flames. Armed soldiers pressed in from all sides.
But on that cold morning, he smelled mist smelled of ash. His instincts flared.
From his cave, Karikalan saw it—smoke. Not from cooking fires. Something bigger. Hotter. He leapt down the mossy slope, sprinting through the tea fields.
What met him below turned his veins to ice.
Screams. Flames. Blood.
Soldiers in ironclad armor bore down on the thatched huts. Spears flashed. A child wailed. A man's body crumpled.
Karikalan stood frozen, fists clenched. His legs trembled, but he didn't run. Not until—
"Karikalan!"
His mother's voice sliced through the chaos. She stood near the shrine, bleeding from the arm, breath ragged.
"Go to the forest! The cave! Now!"
"What about you? And Meenu?" he cried, voice cracking.
She pointed west. "Your father's taken Meenu! He knows the water path. They'll escape. You must survive."
Karikalan's face twisted. "Come with me—!"
"No!" Her eyes brimmed with tears, then narrowed. "You are fast. You are clever. And you should know you were not born Mannan—we found you as a baby, hidden beneath coconut leaves. This is not your burden to carry But…" cried his mom
She grabbed his collar and pressed her forehead to his.
"…you have been more our son than any blood could claim. So be a Mannan for me. Live for our name."
Karikalan felt something split inside. He was crying but didn't know it. His mother shoved a cold Metalic necklace into his fist.
"Now go ! I will come after you...."
He turned, but not before seeing his father disappear into the trees with Meenu from another corner of village in the middle the biggest massacre is happening. His mother stayed behind, drawing a rusted blade with trembling hands, facing a soldier three times her size.
He ran. He didn't stop until the forest swallowed him. He hid in his cave, buried under ferns and silence. For days, the boy neither slept nor wept. Only the Metalic necklace reminded him that his pain was still real.
A Stranger's Hand
On the fourth day, footsteps echoed.
Karikalan crawled to the entrance, body thin, eyes hollow. A man approached—lean, unshaven, and carrying a satchel of stale rice.
"I've been watching," the man said. "The fire didn't take you. Lucky."
Karikalan's lips parted. "Who are you?"
"Narayan. Merchant of lost causes. You look like one."
The boy's stomach growled. He took the rice with hesitation.
Narayan smirked. "Come with me. I'll find you a place to stay. Can't be worse than this cave."
The boy looked at the path behind him. The ruins of his life. His mother's last words.
"…Fine," he said.
Karikalan followed Narayan down hidden goat paths to a remote village, where scarred faces and wary eyes met him at every corner. He shared meals, slept under roofs, and mended baskets—but he never smiled.
Then one night, Narayan brought a group of hooded men. He claimed they were priests seeking lost orphans.
Karikalan felt the chill before they even spoke. When they touched his back with a glowing copper brand, it sizzled. His scream echoed across the valley.
"Marked," said one of them, grinning. "Sold."
Karikalan's hands shook. "Why…?"
Narayan looked away. "You ate my rice. That was your price."
As iron chains clinked, Karikalan locked eyes with Narayan. His expression was hollow—yet his gaze burned with one vow:
"You will regret this."