The next morning dawned sharp and clear, the air of Kashi humming with that same invisible rhythm. In the courtyards of the Akasha, the team gathered under the watchful eyes of Vashrya. The sage stood tall, his staff in hand, his expression calm but expectant.

  “You have all seen the Mathas,” he said, his deep voice carrying easily in the crisp air. “Now comes the time to choose. Though you are Kshatriyas, and mantra is not your weapon, the disciplines of the Mathas are not limited to rishis alone. Each teaches more than power—it teaches tempering of body, sharpening of mind, and the shaping of spirit. These are strengths you can carry into battle.”

  The group exchanged glances, a silent weight settling among them. One by one, their choices emerged.

  Varun, the quiet scout, spoke first. “I will walk with the Marut Matha.” His voice was low, but steady. “Wind suits me. To see far, to move without being bound.”

  Vashrya inclined his head. “A fitting choice. The scout must be as free as the air he breathes.”

  Pratap was next. His spear rested against his shoulder, his jaw set in its usual sternness. “Varuni,” he declared. “Water may yield, but it never loses its course. Discipline, endurance, persistence—these I will master.”

  Meera gave a short laugh, stepping forward with her twin blades strapped across her back. “Jyoti for me. Fire burns fast, loud, and fierce. That’s where I belong.”

  Virat, standing beside her, nodded in agreement. “Then I will join Jyoti as well. Fire reveals, fire purifies. If I am to stand alongside my father and brother one day, I need clarity as much as strength.”

  Dharan, the oldest among them, waited until the others had spoken. His voice carried the weight of thought. “Dhruva. The Earth. A commander must be unyielding. If I cannot anchor others, then my strength is wasted.”

  Each choice seemed to settle naturally, as if the Mathas themselves had already whispered into their hearts.

  Finally, all eyes turned to Surya. He stood still for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the city, then lifted his chin.

  “I will learn from all the Mathas,” he said. His words were simple, but they dropped into the silence like stones into a still pond.

  Even his companions stiffened, surprise flashing across their faces. Dharan frowned. Meera scoffed. Virat’s eyes widened with both admiration and doubt.

  Vashrya’s expression, however, remained calm. “As it must be,” he said. “Your path is not theirs. The four elements do not bend easily to one soul, let alone a soul trained as a warrior. For others, the Mathas temper body and mind. For you, they must yield everything they can give. And so, we begin.”

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  The choice of where to start had already been made. Vashrya led Surya eastward, toward the blazing towers of Jyoti. The Matha of Fire.

  Its gates loomed tall, crowned by ever-burning flames that bent but never consumed the stone. Inside, the air shimmered with heat. The courtyards rang not with silence, but with sharp cracks of energy, fireballs bursting into controlled sparks above training grounds. Disciples of all ages stood in disciplined lines, each drawing sparks of flame from their palms, shaping them into controlled bursts before extinguishing them.

  At the heart of the Matha stood Rishi Tejas, the stern master who had looked upon Surya with skepticism. His eyes, sharp as embers, followed the prince as he entered.

  “So,” Tejas said, his voice edged like steel pulled from the forge. “The boy who claims the impossible chooses Fire first.” His gaze narrowed, studying Surya as though weighing him against the flames themselves. “Very well. Let him burn.”

  Surya bowed deeply. “I’ll be in your care.”

  Tejas’s response was a curt nod, nothing more.

  The days that followed were humbling.

  Surya did not train among the older disciples, nor in the deeper halls where power blazed unchecked. He was placed in the beginner’s courts, alongside boys and girls barely past childhood. Their robes were simple, their faces young, but their concentration was absolute.

  Here, each novice began the same way—with a candle. They sat cross-legged, a single flame before them, and were told only to breathe. To watch. To feel.

  At first, Surya thought it beneath him. A candle? He had battled giants, faced blades and blood. Yet as hours passed, frustration grew. The flame wavered, but it did not move to his will. It danced mockingly, untamed.

  The young disciples, however, made small progress. A flicker that bent at their breath, a spark that leapt at their focus. Surya’s candle remained stubborn, his impatience burning hotter than the fire itself.

  When at last the day ended, he slumped in exhaustion, sweat on his brow though he had done nothing but sit.

  Elsewhere, his companions began their own lessons.

  Varun trained high in the towers of Marut, learning to walk ropes strung across dizzying heights, his body guided by the whisper of wind. Pratap sat for hours beneath falling streams, steady as stone, his focus never wavering. Meera and Virat sparred under blazing fire-suns, their weapons reflecting the brilliance of the Jyoti flames, every clash sharpening their clarity. Dharan stood in Dhruva’s courtyards, motionless as boulders were rolled toward him, learning to root his body like the earth.

  Each of them strained, sweated, and endured. Yet for them, the path was clear, a single Matha shaping their core.

  For Surya, there was no such simplicity. He had to walk all paths, burn in all flames, flow with all waters, rise with all winds, and root in all earth.

  At night, when the team gathered, their talk was full of exhaustion but also of progress. Varun spoke of balance, Meera of heat, Dharan of stillness. Surya listened, silent, his own progress barely worth mentioning.

  Yet deep within, beneath the frustration, something stirred. As he sat before his stubborn candle night after night, he began to notice things—the way the flame bent when his breath calmed, the way it steadied when his thoughts grew still. Perhaps this was the true beginning, not of fire, but of himself.

  As the team drifted to rest one night, Vashrya’s voice broke the silence. “Remember this, Surya. Fire does not obey impatience. It devours the hasty. To command flame, you must first master the fire within.”

  Surya closed his eyes, the words heavy but clear. Tomorrow, the candle would not be his enemy. Tomorrow, it would be his teacher.