The forest shimmered with a crisp morning light, the sun slicing through the canopy in golden shafts that danced on the earth. Devavrata stood in a wide clearing, the celestial bow slung across his back, its runes catching the dawn's glow. His breath still carried the weight of Hastinapura, Shantanu's fear, the quiet ache of their distance, but he pushed it aside. Parashurama had called him here, his gruff "New lesson" ringing in Devavrata's ears, and the air buzzed with something fresh, something challenging. He flexed his hands, ready for whatever the sage threw at him.
Hooves thudded nearby, a rhythmic pulse that stirred the dust. Parashurama emerged from the trees, leading two horses, one a sleek chestnut, the other a dappled gray mare with eyes like storm clouds. Her mane whipped in the breeze, and she pawed the ground, restless. Behind him, Kshema trailed, his crimson leather glinting, his bow loose in his grip, a smirk already tugging at his lips.
"Mounted archery," Parashurama said, his voice a low growl that cut through the morning hush. He gestured to the horses, then to a row of wooden targets fifty paces off, their bark chipped from past strikes. "War doesn't wait for your feet to find the ground. You shoot from the saddle, or you die."
Devavrata nodded, stepping toward the gray mare. "What's her name?" he asked, reaching out a hand. She snorted, tossing her head, and he pulled back, cautious.
"Vayu," Parashurama replied, his grin sly. "Wind herself, fast, wild. Tame her, river-son, or she'll throw you." He handed the reins to Devavrata, then turned to Kshema. "You take Rudra. Show him how it's done."
Kshema took the chestnut's reins with a lazy confidence, swinging into the saddle like he'd been born there. "Watch this, river pup," he called, his tone sharp, teasing. He nocked an arrow, his bow steady as Rudra pranced beneath him, and loosed, the shot streaked clean, thunking dead center into the first target. He grinned, patting the horse's neck. "Noble blood knows a saddle. You?"
Devavrata's jaw tightened, the barb stinging but familiar. He gripped Vayu's reins, planting a boot in the stirrup, and hauled himself up. The mare shifted, her muscles rippling, and he nearly slipped, clutching the saddle to steady himself. "I'll manage," he said, his voice even, though his pulse quickened.
Parashurama crossed his arms, his axe resting against a tree. "Managing's not enough," he growled. "Ride and shoot, three targets, three hits. Go."
Kshema spurred Rudra forward, the horse breaking into a smooth canter. His bow sang, arrows flying with a precision that cut the air, thunk, thunk, thunk, each embedding center in its mark. He wheeled back, his smirk wider, eyes glinting. "Easy," he said, leaning back in the saddle. "Your turn, Ganga's pet."
Devavrata took a breath, the Ganga's pulse a faint hum in his veins, and nudged Vayu forward. She bolted, a surge of speed that jolted him, her hooves pounding the earth. He fumbled the bow, nocking an arrow as the world blurred, wind in his face, targets flashing past. He loosed, the shot veering wide, splintering a tree instead. Vayu veered, snorting, and he gripped the reins, fighting to stay seated.
Kshema's laugh rang out, sharp and mocking. "That's it? You'll spook the horse before you hit anything!"
Devavrata gritted his teeth, pulling Vayu into a tight turn. Her ears flicked back, her stride uneven, and he felt her resistance, a wild thing, unyielding. He nocked again, aiming for the second target, but she swerved at the last moment, the arrow sailing into the dirt. His stomach sank, the miss a weight on his chest, but he spurred her on, determined.
Parashurama's voice cut through the chaos. "Sync with her, river-son! She's wind, you're the rider, not the storm!"
Devavrata exhaled, loosening his grip on the reins, letting Vayu's rhythm seep into him, her hooves, her breath, a pulse like the Ganga's flow. He nocked a third arrow, the bow humming, and leaned into her stride. The target loomed, a blur of wood, and he loosed, the arrow streaked, thudding into the edge of the mark, not center but a hit. Vayu slowed, snorting, and he patted her neck, sweat beading on his brow.
Kshema clapped slowly, his smirk dripping with scorn. "One out of three? Pathetic. Stick to standing still, river pup."
Devavrata slid from the saddle, his legs shaky but firming as he met Kshema's gaze. "It's a start," he said, his tone calm, edged. "I'll get there."
Parashurama stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the target. "A start's something," he said, his voice rough but steady. "You're fighting her, Vayu's not your enemy. Feel her next time, not force her." He turned to Kshema, his grin sly. "And you, wipe that smirk off, noble's brat. Skill's good, but pride's a bad rider."
Kshema's smirk faltered, his grip tightening on Rudra's reins. "Pride? I hit every mark, clean, no tricks. He's flailing."
"Flailing's how you learn," Parashurama shot back, picking up his axe. "He's got grit, you've got polish. Both break if you're not careful." He gestured to the targets. "Again, river-son. Three hits, or you're mucking stalls till dusk."
Devavrata nodded, remounting Vayu. She tossed her head, but he murmured to her, low and steady, feeling her tension ease. He spurred her forward, slower this time, letting her pace guide him. The first target loomed, he nocked, loosed, and the arrow struck near-center, a solid thud. Kshema's eyes narrowed, his silence louder than his taunts.
The second came fast, Vayu's stride picking up, and Devavrata leaned with her, the bow steady. The shot flew, grazing the target's edge, a hit, barely. His breath hitched, but he pushed on, nocking the third as Vayu surged. The final target blurred past, he loosed, the arrow spiraling with a faint gust, sinking into the wood just off-center. Three hits, shaky but true.
He reined Vayu in, her flanks heaving, and slid to the ground, his chest tight with effort. Parashurama grunted, a flicker of approval in his gaze. "Better," he said, resting the axe on his shoulder. "You're syncing, keep it. Wind's your blood, river-son. Use it."
Kshema dismounted, brushing dust from his leather, his smirk returning but thinner. "Shaky's not winning wars," he said, his tone biting but less sharp. "Keep up, river pup, or get trampled." He turned, leading Rudra off, but his glance back lingered, a crack in his bravado.
Devavrata patted Vayu's flank, her breath warm against his hand. "We'll get there," he murmured, half to her, half to himself. The bow hummed in his grip, its runes pulsing faintly, and he felt the Ganga's whisper, a steady thread beneath the strain.
Parashurama watched Kshema go, then turned to Devavrata, his voice low. "He's got the edge now, born to it. You've got something else, forge it, or he'll outpace you." He trudged off, leaving the clearing quiet save for Vayu's snort and the rustle of leaves.
Devavrata stood alone, the targets looming in the dawn light, their scars a map of his struggle. Three hits, not perfect, not Kshema's polish, but his own. He thought of Shantanu's fear, Ganga's silence, and the road ahead, wind and steel, horse and bow. "I'll sync," he said, a vow to the mare, to the sage, to himself. The forest stretched wide around him, the day young, and he mounted again, ready to ride the wind.