The forest stirred with a brittle dawn, sunlight filtering through the canopy in thin, jagged spears. Devavrata stood in a clearing, the celestial bow steady in his grip, its silver glow catching the morning haze. His body still bore the toll of the storm training, muscles stiff, fingers raw, but he pushed it aside, arrow nocked, waiting for Parashurama's command. The sage loomed nearby, his broad frame a wall of scars and steel, the axe at his side glinting with a quiet menace. The air felt taut, charged with something unspoken, and Devavrata braced himself.
"Draw," Parashurama snapped, his voice a rough bark that shattered the stillness. He jabbed a finger at a target fifty paces away, a wooden disk nailed to an oak, its surface pitted from past strikes. "And don't dawdle, your form's a mess."
Devavrata shifted his stance, boots sinking into the damp earth, and pulled the string taut. The bow hummed, runes flickering, and he loosed, the arrow streaked forth, embedding an inch off-center with a solid thunk. Not perfect, but close. He reached for another, but Parashurama's growl stopped him cold.
"Pathetic!" The sage stormed over, his axe carving a shallow trench in the mud. "You're shooting like a farmer's brat, loose, sloppy. Fix it, or I'll break that bow over your skull!" His eyes blazed, a storm brewing in their depths, and the clearing tensed under his fury.
Devavrata lowered the bow, keeping his voice even. "It's one miss. I'll hit it next time."
Parashurama's glare cut deeper, his scarred hand flexing on the axe. "One miss is death, river-son. You think enemies wait for 'next time'? Draw, now!" His tone brooked no argument, a whipcrack of command.
Devavrata nocked another arrow, his jaw tight, and fired. The shot slammed dead center, splintering the wood with a crack that rang through the trees. He turned, meeting the sage's stare. "Good enough?"
Parashurama grunted, a mix of grudging respect and irritation. "Good's for poets. You're Ganga's blood, be flawless." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Devavrata's. "You're off today. What's gnawing at you?"
Devavrata hesitated, the ache from last night's riverside still fresh. "Just… steadying myself," he said, glancing at the bow. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" Parashurama's laugh was a harsh rasp, slicing the air. "Don't lie to me, boy. I see it, your mind's drifting like smoke. Spit it out, or I'll drag it from you."
Devavrata's grip tightened on the bow, Parashurama's intensity pressing him. "It's her," he said, his voice low. "Ganga. I keep wondering if she'd approve, or if I'm falling short already."
Parashurama stilled, his axe dropping to the mud with a heavy thud. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a shadow, deep, old, jagged. He turned, staring into the forest, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "Approve… Hmph. I used to wonder that too, about my own path."
Devavrata's brow furrowed, the shift catching him off-guard. "Your path?"
The sage's gaze stayed fixed on the trees, his words slow, deliberate. "I was a sage's son once, meant for peace, not blood. But the Kshatriyas changed that. Arrogant kings, bloated with pride, crossed my father one time too many. I took this axe, " he tapped the weapon with a scarred finger, "and carved their kingdoms to ash. Twenty-one times I scoured the earth, their screams my lullaby."
The clearing grew quiet, the weight of his confession sinking in. Devavrata stared, seeing the sage anew, his scars not just trophies, but echoes of a war he'd waged alone. "Why?" he asked, barely a whisper.
Parashurama turned, his eyes locking onto Devavrata's, fierce yet haunted. "Duty. Rage. A line crossed I couldn't uncross. I thought it'd cleanse something, honor, maybe, or my own soul. Left me with nothing but this axe and a name that terrifies." He paused, his tone softening. "You're chasing her approval, river-son. I chased mine through blood. Don't let it hollow you out."
Devavrata swallowed, the words striking deep, a mirror to his own doubts. "I'm not chasing blood," he said, though uncertainty lingered. "I fight for her, for Father, "
"For them?" Parashurama cut in, stepping closer. "Or for what they expect? You're more than their tool, prove it." He yanked a strip of cloth from his robe, tossing it over. "Blindfold. Now."
Devavrata caught it, frowning. "Blind?"
"You heard me," Parashurama growled, pointing at the target. "Eyes lie, instinct doesn't. Five shots, all center, or you're polishing this axe till nightfall."
Devavrata tied the cloth over his eyes, the world fading to black. He nocked an arrow, the bow's hum his anchor, and listened, the wind's rustle, the Ganga's faint song, Parashurama's steady breathing. He loosed, the arrow singing as it flew, striking wood with a solid thud. Four more followed, each a heartbeat apart, each a sharp crack. He pulled the blindfold off, squinting, five arrows pierced the target's heart, the disk split clean in two.
Parashurama nodded, a rare spark of approval in his gaze. "Not bad. You've got grit, rough, unpolished, but there." He stepped back, his voice softening again. "I push you hard, river-son. Not to crush you, to shape you. I've carved too many graves. You won't be another."
Devavrata lowered the bow, a warmth flickering in his chest, respect, maybe trust. "I won't let you down," he said, holding the sage's stare. "Not you, not her."
A figure shifted at the clearing's edge, Kshema, leaning against a tree, his crimson leather stark against the bark. He'd been watching, silent, his bow resting in his arm. His dark eyes flicked between them, a mix of curiosity and unease, Parashurama's raw intensity a storm he couldn't quite read.
"Deep talk for a morning," Kshema called, his tone sharp but tempered. "You two sound like priests, axe and all. What's next, prayers?"
Parashurama's head snapped toward him, his grin sly and edged. "Keep yapping, noble's pup. I'll have you blindfolded next, see if you've got his nerve."
Kshema smirked, but it wavered, his grip tightening on his bow. "Nerve's not the problem. It's the baggage, river pup's lugging a lot." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "That tale, though, wiping out kings? That's a weight I wouldn't touch."
Parashurama's eyes narrowed, his hand brushing the axe. "Weight's what makes a warrior, boy. You'd buckle under half of it." He turned back to Devavrata, dismissing Kshema. "Rest up. Tomorrow's brutal."
Kshema lingered, his smirk fading as Parashurama trudged off, the axe trailing a line in the mud. He glanced at Devavrata, something flickering in his stare, wariness, maybe respect. "He's a beast," he said, quieter now. "You sure you can carry his lessons?"
Devavrata slung the bow over his shoulder, wiping mud from his hands. "Beast or not, he's forging me. Why're you still here, waiting to see me crack?"
Kshema snorted, turning away. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just bored. Keep your river dreams, I'll outshoot you yet." His steps crunched through the leaves, fading into the trees, leaving a faint challenge behind.
Devavrata stood alone, the target's shattered remains a mark of the day. Parashurama's story lingered, kings felled, a legacy of blood. He looked at the axe's trail, then at the bow in his hand. "I won't be your grave," he murmured, a promise to the sage, to Ganga, to himself.
The forest settled, the dawn stretching into a crisp morning. Parashurama's resolve echoed, I forge you to atone, don't fail me. It was a heavy mantle, but Devavrata would bear it, turning it into strength. He headed back, the Ganga's whisper a steady pulse, ready for the trials ahead.