The midday sun pierced the forest canopy, casting dappled light across the training clearing. Devavrata stood near the edge, the celestial bow resting against a tree, its runes dim in the heat. Sweat beaded on his brow from the morning's drills, his muscles taut but steady. Parashurama had left him to practice alone, the sage's gruff "Sort your aim" still ringing in his ears. The quiet was a rare gift, a chance to breathe, but it didn't last. Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, sharp and deliberate, Kshema.
The noble's son emerged, his crimson leather stark against the green, his bow clutched tight. His dark hair was tied back, his jaw set hard, but his eyes burned with something restless, anger, maybe, or something deeper. He stopped a dozen paces away, sizing Devavrata up like a hawk eyeing prey.
"River pup," Kshema said, his voice a low taunt, edged with a grin. "Still polishing that fancy bow? Or did the sage finally tire of you?"
Devavrata turned, wiping his hands on his tunic, his expression calm but guarded. "He's forging me, not coddling me. What's your excuse for lurking?"
Kshema's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Lurking? No, I'm here to shoot. You're just in my way." He slung his bow off his shoulder, its wood polished but mortal, lacking the celestial glow of Devavrata's. "Thought I'd see if the Ganga's pet can back up his talk."
Devavrata raised an eyebrow, the barb sliding off him. "Talk's cheap, Kshema. You've got something to prove, prove it."
Kshema's smirk faltered, a flicker of heat in his gaze. "Oh, I will." He strode to a target thirty paces off, a rough-hewn disk nailed to a pine, its bark chipped from use. "One shot each. Best mark wins. Unless you're scared to lose."
Devavrata picked up his bow, the runes sparking faintly as he gripped it. "Scared's not the word. Let's see what you've got."
Kshema stepped up first, planting his boots wide. He nocked an arrow, his movements precise, practiced, a noble's polish honed by years of drills. The string twanged as he loosed, the arrow streaking through the air with a hiss. It struck the target a hair's breadth from center, embedding deep with a solid thunk. He turned, his smirk back in full force. "Beat that, river-son."
Devavrata nodded, stepping forward. He drew the celestial bow, its hum a quiet song, and nocked an arrow. The Ganga's pulse flickered in his veins, a steady rhythm, and he summoned the wind, just a whisper, enough to guide the shot. The arrow flew, spiraling with a faint gust, and slammed dead center, splintering Kshema's arrow in half with a crack that echoed through the clearing.
Kshema's smirk vanished, his jaw tightening as he stared at the target. "Wind tricks," he muttered, his voice low, bitter. "Figures you'd lean on her gifts."
Devavrata lowered the bow, meeting his gaze. "It's not tricks, it's skill. You're good, Kshema. Why's that not enough for you?"
Kshema's eyes flashed, a storm brewing behind them. "Enough?" He laughed, sharp and hollow, stepping closer. "You don't get it, do you? You waltz in, Ganga's golden boy, divine bow and all, everyone's eyes on you. Me? I've clawed for every scrap I've got."
Devavrata frowned, the heat in Kshema's words pulling him in. "Clawed? You're a noble's son, trained, fed, praised. What's missing?"
Kshema's laugh turned cold, his hands balling into fists. "Praised? Sure, until my brother took it all. Kshetra, firstborn, perfect, the heir. I was the spare, the shadow. Father's 'good enough' son." He spat into the dirt, his voice dropping. "I've been shooting since I could walk, outpacing guards, beating tutors. But it's never enough, not next to him."
Devavrata stilled, the words striking a chord he hadn't expected. He saw Kshema anew, not just a rival, but a mirror, twisted by different scars. "So you push against me," he said, his tone quieter. "To prove you're more?"
Kshema's gaze hardened, but there was a crack in it, something raw. "You're damn right. You've got her, Ganga, shining over you. I've got a brother who'd rather I'd never been born. I'll outshoot you, river pup, and shove it in their faces."
Before Devavrata could reply, a shadow fell over them, Parashurama, stepping from the trees, his axe slung over his shoulder. His eyes flicked between the split target and the two youths, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Bickering like dogs over a bone," he growled, planting the axe in the mud. "What's this, a duel?"
Kshema straightened, his smirk returning, though it was shaky. "Just showing the river-son how real archers shoot, without wind crutches."
Devavrata shot back, calm but firm. "He hit near-center. I hit dead-on. That's the difference."
Parashurama's laugh rumbled, deep and rough. "Difference? You're both peacocks, strutting for pride." He stepped between them, his presence a wall. "Kshema, your shot's sharp, noble blood shows. But you, " he jabbed a finger at Devavrata, "you've got more than skill. You've got her fire. Stop dancing around it."
Kshema bristled, his voice rising. "Fire? It's a cheat, he leans on that bow, on her. I've got nothing but me."
Parashurama's grin faded, his eyes narrowing. "Nothing? You've got spite, good fuel, if you use it right. But envy's a weak arrow, it'll snap mid-flight." He turned to Devavrata. "And you, quit doubting your own aim. Ganga's not here. You are."
Devavrata's chest tightened, Parashurama's words echoing his own riverside whispers. "I'm not doubting," he said, though it sounded thin. "I just… want to be sure."
"Sure?" Parashurama snorted, yanking the axe free. "Certainty's for fools. You're both chasing shadows, his brother, your mother. Face them, or they'll eat you alive."
Kshema crossed his arms, his smirk gone, replaced by a scowl. "Face them? Easy for you, axe-man who butchered kings. Some of us don't have that kind of weight to throw around."
Parashurama's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "Weight? You think that's power? It's a chain, boy, one I'll never shake. You've got your own, stop whining and wield it."
The clearing grew quiet, the sage's words hanging heavy. Devavrata glanced at Kshema, seeing the crack widen, pride masking a wound he hadn't guessed at. "You're not a shadow," he said, his voice low, steady. "Not to me. You're good, better than most. Why's that not enough?"
Kshema's scowl deepened, but his eyes flickered, caught off-guard. "Enough doesn't win," he shot back, turning away. "I'll prove I'm more than your shadow, river pup, watch me." He grabbed his bow, his steps sharp as he headed for the trees, but there was a tremble in them, a fragile shield of pride holding him up.
Parashurama watched him go, then turned to Devavrata, his grin sly again. "He's a thorn, sharp, stubborn. You could learn from that fire, if it doesn't burn you first."
Devavrata nodded, slinging the celestial bow over his shoulder. "He's got something to prove. So do I." He looked at the target, Kshema's split arrow still jutting from it. "But it's not the same."
"No," Parashurama agreed, his voice rough but warm. "Yours is bigger, Ganga's son carries a world. Don't let it crush you." He trudged off, axe dragging a line in the dirt, leaving Devavrata alone.
The sun climbed higher, the forest humming with life, birds chirping, leaves rustling. Devavrata stood by the target, running a hand over the splintered wood. Kshema's vow echoed, I'll prove I'm more than your shadow!, a cry that mirrored his own doubts about Ganga's legacy. He saw the noble's bitterness now, a reflection of his own quiet fears, twisted by a different life.
He picked up an arrow, twirling it between his fingers. "I'm not just her," he murmured, a promise to himself, to Kshema's retreating back. "I'll show you, and me." The wind stirred, a faint whisper of the Ganga, and he headed back, the duel's weight settling into resolve.