The road wound into fertile plains, where rivers shimmered under the sun and fields of wheat swayed like a golden sea. The travelers moved with steady pace, the creak of the chariot blending with the steady rhythm of armored horses.

  By dusk, they reached a village tucked beside a banyan grove. Smoke curled from clay chimneys, and the scent of roasted grain drifted through the air. From a distance, it seemed peaceful. Yet when they entered, Surya felt a tension coiled beneath the stillness.

  Doors closed quickly as they passed. Mothers pulled their children indoors. The usual laughter of evening fires was absent, replaced by hushed whispers.

  Meera frowned, her hands already brushing the hilts of her twin blades. “Villages usually welcome Garudasthala warriors like heroes. This… this feels wrong.”

  Varun scanned the rooftops, bow already in hand. “Eyes are on us. Many. But not with joy.”

  Dharan raised a hand, signaling calm. “Hold your ground. Let us see.”

  At the heart of the village stood a shrine of carved sandstone, its offering plates empty. An elder waited there, back bent but eyes steady. He folded his hands as the group approached.

  “Blessings upon the protectors of Dharma,” the elder said softly, his voice weary. “If you come for rest, you are welcome. But if you come for safety… I fear you will find none here.”

  Surya dismounted, stepping forward. “I am Surya, crown prince of Suryavarta. Speak freely, elder. What weighs upon your people?”

  Gasps rippled through the gathered villagers, but the elder only sighed.

  “Then perhaps fate has mercy still. For this village lives in the shadow of jackals—bandits who wear the armor of men but live without Dharma. They descend from the hills each fortnight, demanding coin, grain, even our daughters. Those who resist are beaten or taken. We have no soldiers here strong enough to stand against them.”

  Virat’s fists clenched. “Rogue soldiers?”

  The elder nodded grimly. “Aye. Their leader once served in the border guard. Some say he fled discipline after dishonor. With him, a handful of others who deserted their posts. They teach the bandits to fight like trained warriors. That is why we cannot resist.”

  The words stirred anger in Dharan’s eyes. “Traitors to their oaths. To abandon the empire is shame enough, but to prey upon innocents—unforgivable.”

  Meera spat on the ground. “Let me at them. I’ll cut those cowards down to size.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Pratap’s jaw tightened. “Restraint, Meera. Bandits may be rabid dogs, but soldiers gone rogue… that is a wound in the empire’s flesh. It must be dealt with properly.”

  The elder bowed low. “We do not ask for war, only for hope. If the prince commands, then let this village remember the Suryavarta is not deaf to our cries.”

  Surya looked to his companions. Their eyes burned with shared resolve. This was not Rakshasa, not ancient demons, but something perhaps more insidious—humans who had abandoned Dharma for greed.

  “We will help,” Surya said firmly. His voice carried across the square, and for the first time, doors cracked open, faces peered out. Hope flickered in fearful eyes.

  Dharan gave a curt nod. “Then we make camp here. At dawn, we begin our work.”

  That night, the group gathered in the elder’s courtyard. The villagers provided food—simple chapati and milk—but served it with reverence.

  Meera leaned against a pillar, chewing noisily. “So what’s the plan, Commander? We storm their den and drag them back by their necks?”

  Dharan shook his head. “Not yet. We know nothing of their numbers, their weapons, or their tactics. If they were once soldiers, they will not scatter like common thieves. We must first gather knowledge.”

  Varun nodded silently, as if the task already fell to him.

  Surya spoke. “Tomorrow, we move quietly. Varun scouts their movements. The rest of us train the villagers in defense. If the bandits return before we strike, the people must not be helpless.”

  Virat blinked, surprised. “Train the villagers? But they’re farmers, not fighters.”

  “Every village in Suryavarta knows at least the basics of defense,” Surya reminded him. “But fear robs them of their strength. If we stand with them, that fear will fade.”

  Sage Vashrya, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice calm but grave. “Remember this, young prince. Rakshasa corrupt the world by twisting Dharma. These rogues, too, are a shadow of that corruption. To defeat them, you must not only break their swords—you must restore faith to the hearts of those they oppress.”

  The firelight flickered across Surya’s face. He felt the truth in the sage’s words.

  At dawn, the village square transformed into a training ground.

  Pratap drilled the men with wooden spears, his voice sharp as steel. “Grip firm! Thrust straight! A crooked spear is a dead farmer!”

  Meera barked at the younger ones, demonstrating quick dodges and blade parries with gleeful aggression. “Faster! You dodge like you’re half asleep! If I can touch you with a stick, imagine what a real blade will do!”

  Virat sparred alongside them, sweating and laughing, slowly earning their trust.

  Meanwhile, Surya stood with Dharan, instructing the elder men in shield formations. Though the shields were little more than planks of wood, he guided them patiently, showing how even simple walls could hold against stronger foes.

  Children watched wide-eyed from the rooftops, cheering whenever a villager managed a clean move. For the first time, laughter returned to the air.

  Varun slipped away into the hills, vanishing like smoke. Hours later, he returned, kneeling before Dharan and Surya.

  “I found their camp,” he reported quietly. “Two dozen at least. Well-armed, with horses. Their leader wears an old officer’s cuirass. They’ve grown complacent—drinking, gambling—but their discipline has not faded completely. They plan to strike this village in two nights.”

  The group exchanged grim looks.

  Dharan’s voice was low, commanding. “Then we strike before they strike us. Tonight, we plan. Tomorrow, we end this.”

  Surya looked out at the villagers, still training, still sweating, but no longer afraid. His heart burned with resolve.

  The first test of their journey was at hand.