The forest brooded under a sky gone gray, heavy clouds rolling in from the north, their edges jagged with the promise of rain. Devavrata stood in a wide clearing, the celestial bow in hand, its runes flickering as a damp wind tugged at his tunic. Yesterday's whispers, the unnatural gusts, the shadow in the trees, clung to his thoughts, but he pushed them down. His grip tightened, the Ganga's pulse steady in his veins, grounding him against the storm's breath.
Parashurama emerged from the ashram, his broad frame cutting through the rising gale, the axe slung over his shoulder glinting dull in the dim light. He carried a bundle of wooden targets, crudely carved, lashed to stakes, and drove them into the earth, thirty paces apart, their surfaces swaying as the wind grew sharp. His voice boomed over the howl, rough and unyielding. "No standing today, river-son. You ride, shoot in the storm."
Devavrata glanced at Vayu, tethered nearby, her gray coat rippling, her ears flicking against the gusts. "Mounted again?" he asked, his tone even, ready.
The sage's grin flashed, fierce and expectant. "Aye, moving targets, rain in your face. Hit them all, or don't bother dismounting." He turned, barking across the clearing. "Noble's son, you too. Prove your worth."
Kshema stepped up, his crimson leather dark with damp, bow gripped tight. "Storm's nothing," he said, his smirk sharp, eyes darting to Devavrata. "Watch me, river-son."
Parashurama grunted, planting the axe in the dirt. "Less talk, ride." He waved them off, the wind snapping at his cloak as thunder rumbled low.
Devavrata approached Vayu, patting her flank. "Ready for this?" he murmured, swinging into the saddle. She snorted, tossing her head, but steadied under his touch, her muscles taut. He took the reins, feeling her rhythm, a wild pulse he'd begun to know.
Kshema mounted Rudra, the chestnut stallion prancing, his bow already nocked. "Easy work," he called, spurring forward, his voice cutting through the wind. "Follow if you can."
Rain began, a cold drizzle at first, then harder, pelting Devavrata's face as he urged Vayu into a canter. The targets blurred ahead, swaying in the gale, their stakes creaking. He drew, the bow humming, but the wind shoved at him, rain stinging his eyes. His first shot flew, wild, spiraling into the mud, a miss that sank his gut.
Kshema's laugh rang out, sharp and mocking. "Slipping already?" He loosed from Rudra's back, the arrow slicing through the storm to split the first target's center, a clean hit, raw and precise. He wheeled, grinning. "That's one."
Devavrata gritted his teeth, rain dripping from his brow. "Focus," he told himself, tightening his grip on Vayu. She surged, hooves pounding, and he leaned into her stride, feeling the wind, not fighting it, riding it. He nocked again, the Ganga's pulse flaring, and called it, a gust swirled from his breath, sharp and controlled, merging with the storm. He fired, the arrow rode the wind, splitting the second target mid-gale with a crack that echoed.
Kshema's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing. "Tricks now?" He spurred Rudra, firing fast, his second shot pierced the next target, no wind, just skill, the wood shattering under his force. "No magic here, pure aim."
Parashurama watched from the clearing's edge, rain streaking his scars, his grunt low but clear. "Good, noble's son, raw steel." His gaze shifted to Devavrata, expectant, the axe steady in his hand.
Devavrata urged Vayu on, the storm battering them, rain lashing, wind howling, the third target a blur. He drew, syncing with her rhythm, her breath, the gale's roar. The Ganga's power stirred, a thread he wove into the wind, sharp, alive. He loosed, the arrow soared, a streak of force, splitting the target dead center, straw bursting in the downpour.
Kshema rode up, rain-soaked, and fired his last, another hit, center again, his bow steady despite the storm. "Matched you," he snapped, reining Rudra in, his glare cutting through the wet. "No river tricks needed."
Devavrata slowed Vayu, patting her neck, her flanks heaving. "Matched is matched," he said, his voice calm, pride warming his chest. "We both hit."
Parashurama trudged forward, rain dripping from his axe, his eyes flicking between them. "Three each, river-son bends the storm, noble's son cuts it." He nodded at Kshema, a rare grunt of approval. "Solid, brat." Then to Devavrata, his grin sly. "You're syncing, wind's yours now."
Kshema's jaw tightened, his glare sharpening, envy flashing beneath the rain. "Wind's a crutch," he muttered, swinging off Rudra. "I don't need it to win."
"Winning's not the point," Devavrata said, dismounting, his tone steady. "Hitting is, storm or not."
Kshema's smirk twisted, his voice low, biting. "Keep telling yourself that, river-son." He brushed past, shoulder clipping Devavrata's, heading for the ashram, his bow dripping in his grip.
Parashurama's gaze followed him, then settled on Devavrata, his voice rough over the rain. "Skill's a spark, control it, or it burns you." He hefted the axe, turning away, leaving the words to hang.
Devavrata stood in the downpour, Vayu snorting beside him, the targets splintered and swaying. Pride pulsed in him, three hits, wind-summoned, a milestone carved in the storm. But Kshema's glare lingered, a shadow on the edge of it, envy growing, a blade sharpening with each clash. He patted Vayu again, her warmth steadying him, the Ganga's pulse strong.
The rain eased, a drizzle now, the clearing quiet save for the drip of water from leaves. Aruni ran up, his short bow slung, eyes wide. "You shot through that? I couldn't even see!"
"Had to," Devavrata said, managing a smile. "Storm doesn't wait."
Vikrama approached, his cloak sodden, voice even. "Wind-summoning, neat trick. Took guts to pull it off."
"More than guts," Devavrata replied, wiping rain from his face. "Had to feel it, Vayu, the storm, all of it."
Aruni grinned, rain streaking his hair. "Felt like magic to me."
"Not magic," Devavrata said, his tone light but firm. "Just what's in me, same as your aim's in you."
Vikrama nodded, glancing at the targets. "Kshema's good, damn good. But he's sore about it."
"Sore's his way," Devavrata said, his eyes tracing Kshema's path. "Pushes him, pushes me too."
The forest settled, the storm's roar fading, but a chill lingered, not rain, not wind, something deeper. Devavrata shifted his bow, the runes pulsing faintly, his thoughts drifting, Dronaresh, Parashurama's test, the whispers from yesterday. Was this part of it? He shook it off, leading Vayu back, her hooves squelching in the mud.
A low rustle stirred the trees, sharp against the quiet. Devavrata paused, turning, his hand on the bow. Aruni stiffened, voice low. "That again?"
Vikrama's eyes narrowed, scanning the woods. "Same as yesterday, too close."