The forest simmered under a harsh noon sun, its canopy a patchwork of green and gold, the air thick with heat and the hum of unseen life. Devavrata stood in a dusty clearing, the celestial bow steady in his hands, its runes catching the light as he aimed at a straw dummy thirty paces off. His muscles ached from yesterday's ride, Vayu's wild surge still echoed in his bones, but he pushed it aside, nocking an arrow. Kshema's taunt, keep up or get trampled, lingered, a thorn under his skin. He loosed, the arrow streaking clean, thunking into the dummy's chest, a hair from the heart.
Parashurama watched from the clearing's edge, his broad frame rooted like an ancient oak, the axe slung over his shoulder glinting with a quiet menace. His eyes flicked over Devavrata's form, stern and unyielding, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips, approval, buried deep. He'd been sharper today, barking orders with a bite that kept Devavrata on edge, though his gaze occasionally drifted to the trees, a flicker of something passing through it.
"Passable," Parashurama growled, stepping forward, his voice rough as gravel. "Chest shots bleed, heart shots kill. Aim higher, river-son." He jabbed a finger at the dummy, its straw spilling from the wound.
Devavrata nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, his tone steady. "I'll adjust, next one's dead center."
Kshema lounged nearby, his crimson leather stark against a fallen log, his bow resting across his knees. He smirked, twirling an arrow between his fingers. "Adjust? You're still flailing, river pup. Watch this." He stood, nocking in one fluid motion, and loosed, the arrow slammed into the dummy's head, straw bursting with a crack. "That's killing."
Parashurama's grin widened, sly and edged, his eyes narrowing on Kshema. "Good shot, noble's brat, cocky's a bonus till it's your neck." He turned to Devavrata, axe tapping his shoulder. "Again, heart, not hope."
Devavrata drew, the bow humming, and focused, the Ganga's pulse a faint rhythm in his veins. He loosed, the arrow singing, striking the dummy's heart clean, splintering Kshema's shaft with a thud that rang through the clearing. He exhaled, meeting Parashurama's gaze. "Dead enough?"
The sage grunted, a rare spark in his eyes. "Dead's a start. You're learning, slow, but sure." He stepped back, his voice dropping. "War's not straw, though. Foes move, flesh fights back."
Kshema snorted, kicking dirt toward the dummy. "Flesh? Where's the fight here, axe-man? You're training us for scarecrows." His tone was sharp, taunting, but his eyes flicked to the forest, a shadow crossing them.
Parashurama's laugh was low, a rumble that shook the air. "Scarecrows don't bleed, boy. Keep flapping that tongue, I'll find you something real to shoot." He turned, pacing the clearing, his axe dragging a shallow line in the dust, his gaze sweeping the trees again, steady, untroubled, but deliberate.
Devavrata lowered the bow, his brow creasing. "Real?" he asked, his voice low, probing. "What's out there, you've been watching the woods all day."
Parashurama paused, his back to them, the axe stilling. "Echoes," he said, his tone gruff, dismissive. "Old kills, nothing worth my steel." He faced Devavrata, his grin sly, a glint of challenge in it. "You'll see soon enough, river-son. Noble's brat too, test's coming."
Kshema crossed his arms, his smirk thinning. "Test? More of your games? I'm not here for riddles, old man." His hand brushed his bow, restless, but his bravado felt forced, his eyes darting to the trees.
Devavrata's chest tightened, Parashurama's words sinking in, echoes, old kills. Shantanu's fear flickered in his mind, more than I dreamed, but this was different, tied to the sage's past, not his own. "Old kills?" he pressed, his tone firm, steady. "Who's left to echo?"
Parashurama's eyes met his, sharp as the axe's edge, but he waved a hand, brushing it off. "Kshatriya filth, Dronaresh, one of many I cut down. Clings to life like a roach, weak, whining." His voice was cold, scornful, the wrath of Vishnu simmering beneath. "Not my fight anymore, yours, maybe."
Kshema laughed, harsh and short. "A king? You're jumping at roaches now? Pathetic." He slung his bow, turning away, but his steps faltered, his gaze lingering on the forest's edge.
Devavrata watched him, then turned to Parashurama, the name, Dronaresh, hanging heavy. "Weak or not, why's he out there?" he asked, his voice calm, searching. "What's he want?"
Parashurama's grin faded, his tone flat, final. "Revenge, petty, useless. Let him crawl. You'll crush him if he shows, practice for what's real." He hefted the axe, striding toward the ashram, his shadow long and unyielding. "Shoot till dusk, both of you."
Kshema kicked another clod of dirt, muttering, "Roaches don't scare me." He nocked an arrow, firing at the dummy, another headshot, clean but angry, then stalked off, his pride a brittle shield.
Devavrata stood alone, the clearing quiet save for the wind's rustle and the dummy's swaying straw. Dronaresh, a king Parashurama had massacred, one of the twenty-one purges, now a lingering echo. He nocked again, loosing, the arrow struck heart-center, a solid thud. The Ganga's whisper pulsed, grounding him, but his thoughts churned, tests, revenge, a foe too weak for Parashurama's wrath.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the dust. Devavrata fired again, each shot a rhythm, thunk, thunk, his focus sharpening, but the forest felt alive, its hum too sharp, too close. A twig snapped, faint, beyond the trees. He paused, bow half-drawn, eyes narrowing, nothing, just wind. Or was it?
Parashurama's voice barked from the ashram, distant but clear. "Keep shooting, river-son!" Devavrata turned back, loosing another arrow, but the snap came again, louder, deliberate. His pulse quickened, the runes flaring faintly, and a shadow flickered at the clearing's edge, thin, ragged, gone in a blink.
"Kshema!" he called, spinning, but the noble was out of sight, and a low laugh, dry, bitter, rolled from the trees, chilling the air.