The morning after the interrogation was heavy with silence. The villagers were rebuilding, the ashes of the night before still smoldering faintly, and the seven warriors of Garudasthala sat together around a low fire. All eyes eventually turned to Surya.

  He took a breath, feeling the weight of the crown he was meant to inherit—not on his head yet, but pressing on his shoulders. “We cannot keep this to ourselves,” he said firmly. “This must reach the Raj Sabha at once.”

  Dharan nodded. “But couriers will take days, maybe weeks. And the roads aren’t safe.”

  “I don’t mean a courier,” Surya replied. He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled a soft, lilting tone. The sound carried into the forest.

  Moments later, a flash of rose and midnight black burst from the treeline. A parakeet—sleek, bright-eyed, its neck adorned with a thin circlet that gleamed in the sunlight. It alighted on Surya’s arm, chirping once, as though greeting an old friend.

  “Parakeet of the royal bloodline,” Virat murmured, his eyes widening slightly.

  Surya nodded. “Every royal and every high seat of the Raj Sabha has one. They are trained to carry words only for the crown, and only to return to the Royal Garden of Indraprastha. No one outside the palace can command them.”

  He quickly rolled a short scroll, pressing the royal seal into the wax. The others watched as he tied it carefully to the bird’s leg. Then, with a steady voice, he recited, “Rajputra. Rajguru.”

  The parakeet repeated the words in Surya’s own voice, head tilting as though understanding. Then it spread its wings and took off, a streak of color against the sky. Within a day, it would reach the capital.

  Surya lowered his hand and turned back to his companions. “Now, it’s out of our hands. The Raj Sabha will decide the next step. What we can do is grow stronger. If Avanendra is setting their camps across Suryavarta, then it falls to us to cut them down until reinforcements arrive.” His gaze swept across Dharan, Pratap, Meera, Varun, Virat, and Sage Vashrya. “Training begins again. Harder this time.”

  Virat chuckled lightly, tightening the strap on his gauntlet. “Finally, something we both agree on.”

  That day, they trained until the sun bled red into the horizon. Dharan led grueling drills in formation fighting, forcing Surya to adapt to the rhythm of the Garudasthala. Meera sparred with him until his arms ached, her twin blades striking like lightning, while Pratap tested his patience and precision with endless spear counters. Even Varun, quiet as always, pushed Surya to sharpen his awareness, vanishing into the forest only to reappear with an arrow aimed at his chest.

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  And through it all, Virat was there. Sometimes an opponent, sometimes a partner, always a rival pressing him to rise higher. Where Surya faltered, Virat steadied him; where Virat pushed, Surya pushed back. By nightfall, Surya’s body burned with exhaustion, but inside he felt something stirring—his rhythm with the team no longer broken, but slowly weaving into theirs.

  Far away, as the moon climbed, the parakeet cut across the skies of Suryavarta. By dawn, its wings carried it over the walls of Indraprastha. The palace guards, stationed in the Royal Garden, stirred at the sight. They rushed forward as the bird perched on its stone pillar.

  “Rajputra. Rajguru,” the parakeet recited in Surya’s voice.

  The guards exchanged sharp glances, one immediately untying the scroll. When they saw the prince’s seal pressed into the wax, they wasted no time. Such messages, borne by the parakeets, were never trivial. They were emergencies.

  The scroll was delivered swiftly to the chambers of Rajguru Agastya, the old sage whose wisdom guided the throne. He read it once, his hands tightening, then rose at once and made his way to the Maharaja’s quarters.

  It was almost dawn when the great conch was blown, summoning the Raj Sabha for an emergency assembly. Ministers, generals, and nobles filed into the great hall, their silks rustling, their voices buzzing with speculation. Such a sudden call had not been heard in years.

  “What could it be?”

  “Did an enemy breach the borders?”

  “Or is it palace matters?”

  The noise swelled until the heavy footfalls of Senapati Rudra silenced them all. His gaze swept the chamber like a drawn blade.

  Then Rajguru Agastya stepped forward, his voice carrying the weight of midnight revelations. “In the night, a parakeet arrived from Rajputra Surya. The message is grave. Avanendra has already invaded us—not openly, but in secret. Their soldiers are planting bandit camps across our villages and trade routes, waiting for a signal. When the signal comes, they will strike at once to weaken Suryavarta from within. And…” His eyes darkened. “Sage Vashrya suspects Rakshasa influence in Avanendra’s fall.”

  Gasps and murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some scoffed, others whispered prayers. The words “Rakshasa” and “Avanendra” seemed to hang like a storm cloud over the Sabha.

  Again, Rudra’s voice boomed, silencing them.

  From his throne, Maharaja Veerajit spoke, his tone calm but unyielding. “Then we act. I am enforcing the Durgapala and the Vana-Rakshaka battalions at once.”

  The Durgapala were the fortress guardians of Suryavarta—heavily armed, mobile, and disciplined. Their strength lay in defending trade routes, fortifying cities, and holding ground against overwhelming force.

  The Vana-Rakshaka, by contrast, were hunters and shadows. Masters of tracking, survival, and ambush, they thrived in the deep forests, the borderlands, and the scattered rural villages. Where armies could not march, the Vana-Rakshaka would.

  Together, they formed the backbone of the kingdom’s defense within its heartlands.

  The Maharaja let silence settle before he continued. “We shall now deliberate on our movements. But know this—Suryavarta will not sit idle while shadows grow within her borders.”

  Behind the throne, Queen Maitreyi’s face was soft, but her hands tightened on her shawl. She said little in the Sabha, as was custom, but her eyes spoke the words her husband could not. My son… may the gods keep him safe.

  Far from her, Surya was sharpening his blade, unaware of his mother’s silent prayers.

  The storm had only just begun.