The once lustrous Kingdom of Ayodhya, a jewel nestled in the heart of the fertile plains, now lay shrouded in a pall of despair. The azure skies, once a canvas of endless promise, were now bruised with the deep indigo and angry violet of ominous clouds, pregnant with a sorrowful weight. Sunlight, which had bathed the city in a golden glow, was now a fractured memory, replaced by an eerie, diffused light that cast long, distorted shadows, making familiar landmarks seem alien and menacing. The air, once fragrant with the sweet perfume of jasmine and the earthy scent of tilled fields, was now thick with the cloying dampness of impending storms and the metallic tang of fear.

A low, guttural rumble emanated from the depths of the earth, a constant tremor that vibrated through the very bones of the kingdom, as if the land itself was in mortal agony. Palatial walls, adorned with intricate carvings and painted in vibrant hues of saffron, emerald, and lapis lazuli, now shuddered, their once smooth surfaces beginning to show hairline fractures. The majestic Saryu River, usually a lifeline of the kingdom, its waters sparkling like a string of sapphires under the sun, had swollen into a raging torrent. Its muddy brown waters, flecked with debris, overflowed its banks with a furious roar,吞噬 villages and farmlands in a relentless, watery embrace. The gentle murmur of flowing water had been replaced by the frantic cries of displaced families and the desperate bleating of livestock caught in the surging tide.