The dust of battle had settled, but the weight of it lingered. Villagers moved cautiously through the wreckage of their homes, whispering prayers of relief as warriors of Suryavarta stood guard. The road was safe again—for now.

  Surya sat apart, his muscles aching from the fight. He had improved—he knew that much. Yet, beside the Garudasthala warriors, his rhythm still faltered. He had power, yes, but the harmony they fought with… that was something else entirely. It stung more because he knew Virat was born to that flow.

  Surya realized, with a faint pang, that he had nearly forgotten Virat these past weeks. He had been so focused on training with Dharan’s team that the thought of Rudra’s younger son had been pushed aside. But Virat was no ordinary warrior—he was already marked for the Garudas battalion, the elite frontline force every Garudasthala aspired to join. Surya had once bested him, but only because Virat had underestimated him in their duel. Even then, it had taken everything Surya had to win.

  Now, seeing Virat after the battle, sword still in hand and clothes stained with ash, Surya was reminded of that truth.

  Virat approached, eyes sharp yet carrying a quiet warmth. “You held the line well,” he said, tone even. Then his expression softened. “Are you hurt?”

  Surya blinked. Concern wasn’t what he expected. Rivalry, yes. Challenge, always. But concern? That was something different.

  “I’ll live,” Surya replied with a small nod. “Bruised, but nothing worse.”

  Virat gave a faint grin, almost brotherly. “Good. You’ll need to be ready. We’re only just beginning.” His words carried both encouragement and challenge—the push of a friend who refused to let him grow soft.

  For the first time since their duel, Surya felt the balance between them settle: not just rivals, but comrades walking the same path.

  The captured bandit was dragged before Dharan and the others, bound at the wrists. He wasn’t just a brigand; the seal burned into his shoulder made that clear. A broken sun—the mark of Avanendra. His armor was worn but disciplined, his bearing still that of a soldier even in defeat.

  At first, he said nothing. His eyes were hard, his lips sealed. Dharan questioned him patiently, Pratap pressed with stern commands, but he remained silent. It was Meera who finally broke him. She leaned close, her twin blades gleaming in the firelight, voice sharp and threatening. “You think your commanders will save you? They’ve already thrown you away. Speak, or I’ll make you regret every breath you’ve stolen from these people.”

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  The man trembled, sweat breaking across his brow. Finally, words spilled out.

  “I’m… a soldier of Avanendra. Lower rank. I was ordered here, like the others.” His voice was rough, hoarse from the fight. “We were told to form camps across Suryavarta—villages, trade roads, anywhere we could spread. To take coin, to seize people, to grow in number. We were to wait for the signal.”

  “Signal?” Dharan’s voice was cold.

  The man hesitated, eyes darting to the swords pointed near him. “When the signal comes… all camps strike at once. Raids, fires, chaos. While your armies guard the borders, we burn you from inside.”

  A chill passed through the group.

  Pratap’s jaw tightened. “Who gave these orders?”

  The soldier shook his head. “Not names I know. Orders came from higher ranks. But…” He hesitated, then spat out the words. “We were told this is the will of our king. That Avanendra will not stop until Suryavarta falls.”

  Dharan’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Avanendra once lived by trade. Why this war in shadows?”

  The soldier laughed bitterly, broken. “Trade? That ended years ago. Famine struck, the rivers dried. Our king closed our gates, cursed the outside world. He says Suryavarta hoards prosperity while Avanendra suffers. He says… you are the enemy of the world itself.” His voice cracked, but the venom in the words lingered.

  Silence followed. Even Meera, blades still near his throat, lowered them slightly.

  Later that night, Dharan and Surya sat apart, the others resting or tending to their wounds. Dharan spoke quietly, sharing what little he knew. “The fall of Avanendra was sudden. Too sudden. Their ports shut almost overnight. No caravans in or out. Rumors of famine, yes… but famine does not turn a kingdom into shadows this quickly. Not without someone pulling the strings.”

  Surya frowned, the soldier’s words echoing in his ears. “They would throw away their people just for hatred of us?”

  Dharan’s face was grim. “Sometimes hatred is all that keeps a broken crown upright.”

  It was Sage Vashrya, however, who gave voice to the unease hanging in the air. The old sage had been silent since the interrogation, his eyes on the stars, lips moving faintly with mantras. At last, he spoke.

  “Avanendra’s fall was not natural,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “The droughts, the sudden hunger, the madness of their king… all of it bears a stench I cannot ignore.”

  Surya turned to him, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Vashrya’s eyes glimmered, seeing beyond what the others could. “I fear this reeks of Rakshasa influence. Their hands twist kings and kingdoms alike. If they are behind this… then Avanendra is no longer merely a starving neighbor. It may be a weapon.”

  The fire crackled in silence as the weight of his words settled over them. The broken sun of Avanendra had already cast its shadow—but now, darker shapes seemed to move behind it.

  And Surya, heir to Suryavarta, knew this was only the beginning.