The forest shimmered under a midday sun, its light spilling through the leaves in golden patches, warming the ashram's training ground. Devavrata stood in a line of straw targets, the celestial bow firm in his grip, its runes catching the glare as he nocked an arrow. Yesterday's hunt lingered, the boar's weight, Aruni's shaky courage, Kshema's sharp solitude. He drew, the Ganga's pulse a quiet rhythm in his veins, and aimed at a target forty paces off, its center scarred from prior shots.
A breeze stirred, soft at first, rustling the grass. He loosed, the arrow flew straight, then veered, spiraling wide to thud into the dirt. Devavrata frowned, his hand pausing on the quiver. The wind picked up, sharper now, tugging at his tunic, and he glanced at the sky, clear, no clouds, no storm brewing.
Aruni stood a few paces left, his short bow trembling as he aimed. "Wind's tricky today," he muttered, his voice tight. He fired, the arrow skittering off course, burying itself in a bush. His eyes widened, darting around. "That's not right."
"Steady," Devavrata said, stepping closer, his tone calm but firm. "Adjust for it, aim higher, let it carry."
Aruni nodded, swallowing hard, and nocked again. "Higher, got it." His shot went off, wobbling but clipping the target's edge, a graze, not a miss. He exhaled, a small grin breaking through. "Better?"
"Better," Devavrata said, clapping his shoulder. "You're learning fast."
Vikrama, to Devavrata's right, fired next, his arrow cut the wind, striking near center with a solid thunk. "Strange gust," he said, voice low, his eyes narrowing at the trees. "Feels off."
Devavrata tilted his head, feeling it too, a chill beneath the breeze, unnatural, like a breath held too long. He nocked another arrow, drawing slow, but the wind surged again, fierce and sudden, scattering his shot into the underbrush. A murmur rippled through the disciples, five others, younger, their arrows tumbling wide, voices rising in confusion.
Kshema stood apart, his crimson leather glinting, bow loose in his hand. He fired, the arrow slicing through the gust to hit dead center, splintering straw. "Bad weather," he called, smirking over his shoulder. "Or bad aim, pick one, river-son."
Devavrata met his gaze, unflinching. "Weather doesn't twist like that. You felt it."
Kshema shrugged, slinging his bow. "Felt wind, nothing special. You're jumping at shadows again." His tone was sharp, but his eyes flicked to the forest, a flicker of doubt beneath the bravado.
Parashurama loomed at the clearing's edge, his broad frame still, the axe gripped tight in one hand. His eyes locked on the trees, dark and unreadable, his jaw set hard. He hadn't spoken since the drill began, his silence a weight that pressed on Devavrata's chest. The sage's knuckles whitened on the axe, but he stayed rooted, saying nothing.
"Something's wrong," Aruni whispered, his bow lowering, his hands shaking. "The wind, it's like it's alive."
"Breathe," Devavrata said, keeping his voice steady. "It's just a gust. Line up, try again."
Aruni hesitated, then nodded, lifting his bow. "Just a gust," he repeated, more to himself, and fired, the arrow veered, missing wide, but he held his stance, jaw tight.
Vikrama loosed another, hitting the target's rim. "Not just a gust," he murmured, stepping closer to Devavrata. "It's pushing back, harder now."
Devavrata nocked once more, his eyes on Parashurama. The sage's silence gnawed at him, Dronaresh's name, a petty king Parashurama had crushed, surfaced in his mind. Old kills, nothing worth my steel, he'd said. Was this the echo? He drew, the bow humming, and loosed, the wind howled, sharp and cold, wrenching the arrow sideways to bury it in a tree trunk.
Kshema laughed, short and harsh. "Nice one, river-son. Maybe stick to calm days." He fired again, his shot cutting through to split his last arrow, a show of skill, defiance in the gust.
"Enough," Parashurama barked, his voice a sudden crack, shattering the tension. He strode forward, axe swinging low, his eyes still on the forest. "Wind's a lesson, adapt or fail. Keep shooting."
Devavrata lowered his bow, turning to him. "It's not natural, why's it fighting us?"
Parashurama's grin flashed, sly and edged, but he didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed beyond the clearing, the axe steady in his grip, his silence louder than the wind. He turned away, pacing back to the ashram, leaving them to the drill.
Aruni clutched his bow, voice quivering. "It's getting worse, look!" The gust swelled, ripping leaves from branches, scattering dust across the targets.
"Hold your ground," Devavrata said, raising his voice over the howl. "We'll outlast it, fire together."
Vikrama nodded, nocking fast. "Together, now." Their arrows flew, his struck the target's edge, Devavrata's grazed the straw, Aruni's sailed wide, but they stood firm, bows raised.
Kshema fired alone, his shot piercing center again, his smirk tight. "Outlast? I'd rather win." He brushed past, heading for the ashram, his leather snapping in the wind.
Devavrata watched him go, then turned to Aruni, who trembled but held his bow. "You're doing fine," he said, keeping it simple. "It's tough, keep at it."
Aruni managed a nod, his eyes bright with effort. "Tough's right. What's making it?"
"No idea," Devavrata said, his tone even, masking the chill creeping up his spine. He glanced at Vikrama. "You?"
"Something's stirring," Vikrama replied, his voice low, steady. "Not weather, feels alive."
The wind died sudden, the clearing still, the air heavy with a quiet that pressed harder than the gusts. Devavrata's hand lingered on his bow, the runes pulsing faintly, a shiver running through him. Parashurama's words, test's coming, twisted with Dronaresh's shadow, a king too weak for the sage's wrath. Was this his doing? He couldn't place it, but the chill stayed, sharp and real.
"Keep practicing," he told Aruni, his voice firm. "We'll figure it out."
Aruni gripped his bow tighter, nodding. "Figure it out, aye."
Vikrama scanned the trees, his arrow still nocked. "It's gone quiet, too quiet."
Devavrata stepped forward, eyes on the forest's edge, the shadows thick and unmoving. Parashurama's silence gnawed deeper, why say nothing? The sage knew, he had to. The Ganga's pulse thrummed, grounding him, but his thoughts raced, what lingered out there, weak or not?
A rustle broke the stillness, faint but close, a whisper beneath the leaves. Aruni stiffened, his voice a hiss. "There, again!"
Vikrama spun, bow raised, his tone sharp. "Something's moving."
Devavrata turned, the runes flaring brighter, his pulse quickening. The rustle grew, a shadow shifting, ragged, fleeting, then gone. A low hum rose, not wind, not bow, and he froze, breath catching. "What's out there watching us?" he murmured, the question hanging as the forest held its answer.