The trade-route village looked lifeless despite its position on one of the busiest roads of Suryavarta. Houses barred, market stalls abandoned, silence hung over it like a curse.

  When Dharan pressed the village elder, the old man whispered, voice shaking, “They come from the hills—organized, armed. Not mere thieves. They demand silver, grain, our daughters. Those who resist vanish.”

  Dharan’s expression hardened. “How many?”

  “Too many,” the elder said. “More than forty.”

  Under the fading sun, Dharan gathered them by a dry riverbed. “Forty men, trained and drilled. That’s no rabble—it’s a warband. We strike hard and fast. Varun, eyes on their watchpoints. Meera, guard our flanks. Pratap with me on the line. Prince—stay center. Sage Vashrya, cover us with mantras when the wall strains.”

  Vashrya’s calm eyes gleamed. “The winds shall answer.”

  Surya’s fingers tightened around his hilt. He had felt progress since their last battle, yet his heart beat with doubt. Forty men, and some trained like soldiers… Can I hold steady?

  Darkness fell. Varun’s arrows silenced the sentries on the ridges. Dharan raised his hand. “Now.”

  They surged forward. Shields locked. Spears bristled. The Garudasthala formation crashed into the bandit camp like a living wall. The first wave of rogues buckled under the weight, but their leaders barked orders, rallying them into counter-formation. Blades rang.

  Surya fought in the center, his sword darting from the safety of the wall. A bandit lunged at him—Pratap’s spear intercepted, giving Surya the chance to strike true. He felt the rhythm now, no longer clashing against his comrades but moving with them.

  Then came the second wave—twenty men surging in a wedge to split their line. The wall shuddered.

  Vashrya stepped forward, mantras spilling from his lips like thunder: “Agni Vajra!” A pillar of fire erupted before the wedge, scattering men, forcing them to falter. He swept his staff, chanting again: “Vāyu Pravāha!” Winds howled, driving smoke and sparks into enemy eyes.

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  The pressure eased. The line held.

  “Press!” Dharan barked.

  They surged again, momentum regained. Surya’s blade struck in rhythm with Meera’s twin arcs, each opening the path for the other. For once, he felt like he belonged.

  But amidst the clash, a rogue captain—a towering man armored and wielding an axe heavy enough to split shields—carved into their line. Each swing forced the Garudasthala to strain, their shield wall trembling.

  Before Dharan could counter, a blur darted past.

  Virat.

  The younger son of Rudra moved like a storm unleashed. His blade cut arcs of steel, each strike precise, devastating. He slipped past the axe’s swing, drove his shoulder into the wielder, and struck twice before the man even hit the ground.

  Gasps rose, even from Meera mid-battle. “That speed—”

  Virat did not stop. He pressed forward, each step fluid, swordsmanship honed by a lifetime under Rudra’s eye. Bandits fell around him as though struck by lightning, his presence cutting fear into the enemy’s ranks.

  “By the gods…” Pratap muttered, even as he fought. “That’s no boy. That’s Rudra’s heir.”

  Surya’s chest tightened, sweat stinging his eyes. He had trained, he had bled to match the Garudasthala’s rhythm—yet Virat cut ahead, dazzling, unstoppable. So this is the measure of Rudra’s blood…

  Galvanized by Virat’s onslaught and Vashrya’s mantras, the formation surged. Surya focused, refusing to let awe paralyze him. He timed his strikes to support, cutting down foes who tried to flank Virat, covering gaps with Pratap. This time, he did not hinder the team. He carried his weight.

  The camp broke under the storm. Tents burned. Weapons clattered to the dirt. Survivors scattered into the hills.

  When the battlefield quieted, Dharan crouched by one of the fallen leaders. Pulling back his tunic revealed the mark burned into his skin: a broken sun.

  “Avanendra,” Dharan muttered grimly.

  He stood, gaze sweeping across the fallen. “Some of these fought with our own stances. But others—those sharp, narrow cuts—they were trained differently. That is not Suryavarta steel. That is Avanendra’s forgotten school.”

  At the edge of the camp, a scarred bandit still breathed, clutching his bleeding side. Dharan’s eyes fixed on him. “Bind him. He will answer for this.”

  By dawn, the villagers emerged, voices crying blessings, garlands laid at their feet. Yet Surya stood apart, breathing hard, gaze fixed on Virat.

  Where he had strained to keep rhythm, Virat had soared, dazzling both friend and foe alike. His strength, his speed—it was as though Rudra himself walked among them.

  So this is the man I must surpass, Surya thought, fists clenching. My friend, my rival. I will catch that light. One day, I must.

  But for now, the seal of Avanendra burned in his mind, a shadow stretching across the empire.