The forest gleamed with a brittle morning light, the air crisp after yesterday's storm, a faint dampness clinging to the leaves. Devavrata stood in a narrow clearing, the celestial bow steady in his hands, its runes catching the sun as he flexed his fingers. The storm saddle lingered in his mind, Vayu's rhythm, the wind bending to his will, Kshema's glare cutting through the rain. He glanced at the mare tethered nearby, her gray coat calm now, and felt the Ganga's pulse thrum beneath his skin, a quiet strength.
Parashurama strode in, his broad frame casting a shadow over the dirt, the axe slung across his back glinting sharp. He dragged three wooden targets, rough-hewn, mounted on ropes tied to branches, swinging them into motion with a flick of his wrist. They swayed, creaking, thirty paces off, a challenge in their dance. His voice rolled out, gruff and commanding. "No horses today, straight duel. Three shots each, moving marks."
Devavrata turned, bow shifting, his tone even. "Against who?"
The sage's grin flashed, sly and hard. "Noble's son, time to settle it." He jerked his head toward Kshema, who stepped up, his crimson leather stark, bow gripped tight.
Kshema's smirk curled, his eyes locking on Devavrata. "About time, river-son. Let's see if your tricks hold up."
Parashurama planted the axe in the ground, his gaze flicking between them. "Three hits, best wins. No whining. Go."
Devavrata nodded, stepping to the line, the targets swaying in the breeze, left, center, right, a rhythm he could feel. He nocked an arrow, drawing slow, the bow humming as he tracked the first mark. Kshema moved beside him, his stance loose but sharp, arrow already drawn.
"First shot's mine," Kshema said, voice cutting, and loosed, the arrow streaked, piercing the left target's edge with a thunk, a hair from center. He grinned, quick and cocky. "Beat that."
Devavrata exhaled, the Ganga's pulse stirring, and fired, his shot hit the same target, dead center, splitting Kshema's arrow with a crack. "Done," he said, his tone steady, a flicker of pride warming his chest.
Kshema's smirk tightened, his eyes narrowing. "Luck," he muttered, nocking again. He aimed at the center target, tracking its sway, his arrow flew, striking clean, the wood splintering under his precision. "Two," he called, turning to Devavrata. "Your move."
Devavrata drew, feeling the wind, not the storm's howl, but a thread he could pull. He summoned it, a faint gust swirling from his breath, and loosed, the arrow rode it, outpacing the target's swing to bury deep in the center, just shy of Kshema's mark. "Two," he echoed, meeting Kshema's glare.
Parashurama watched, arms crossed, his grunt low. "Close, keep it sharp."
Kshema's jaw clenched, his voice a hiss. "Wind again? Figures." He nocked his third, eyes on the right target, its sway erratic, fast. He fired, the arrow slicing through to hit center, a perfect shot, straw bursting out. "Three, clean," he snapped, lowering his bow, his smirk back, edged with fury.
Devavrata steadied himself, the targets' dance a blur now, the wind picking up, natural, wild. He drew, the Ganga's power flaring, and called it, a sharper gust, controlled, bending to his will. He loosed, the arrow surged, outpacing Kshema's speed, splitting the right target's core with a resounding crack, straw scattering in the breeze.
Kshema froze, his bow dropping an inch, his glare burning. "That's it?" he snarled, stepping closer. "Cheating with Ganga's power, pathetic."
Devavrata lowered his bow, turning to face him, his voice calm but firm. "It's mine now, not hers. Three hits, same as you."
"Yours?" Kshema spat, his fist tightening on his bow. "You lean on tricks, I don't need them to bury you." His eyes flicked to the split target, fury boiling beneath the scorn.
Parashurama's voice cut through, a growl that shook the air. "Enough!" He stormed forward, axe in hand, his glare pinning them both. "Three each, river-son takes it by a hair. Pride splits more than arrows, shut it, noble's brat."
Kshema wheeled on him, his voice rising. "A hair? He's bending wind, that's no duel!"
"It's skill," Devavrata said, stepping up, his tone steady, unyielding. "You hit with yours, I hit with mine."
Kshema's laugh was harsh, bitter. "Skill? It's a crutch, Ganga's pup playing god." He shoved past, shoulder slamming Devavrata's, his bow trembling in his grip.
Parashurama's eyes narrowed, his voice low, dangerous. "Cry all you want, boy, losing's yours to swallow." He turned to Devavrata, nodding curtly. "Wind's yours, good. Don't let it rule you."
Devavrata met his gaze, the sage's warning sinking in, pride, control, a line to walk. "Won't," he said, his voice quiet, the victory sharp but tempered. He glanced at Kshema's retreating back, the noble's fury a storm of its own, straining their threadbare tie.
Kshema stopped at the clearing's edge, turning, his glare a blade through the morning light. "Next time, no tricks, just me," he snarled, his words a promise, raw and jagged, before he stalked into the trees.
Parashurama hefted his axe, his grin sly, fading. "He's fire, burns hot, burns out. You're steady, keep it." He walked off, leaving the targets swaying, their splintered cores a silent tally.
Devavrata stood alone, the bow warm in his hands, its runes pulsing faintly. Three shots, his wind outpacing Kshema's steel, a win by the thinnest edge. Pride flared, bright and real, but Kshema's words stung, cheating, crutch, echoing doubts he'd buried by the river. He shook them off, the Ganga's pulse a steady anchor, his own now.
Aruni jogged up, his short bow slung, eyes wide. "You beat him, with wind? That was fast!"
"Fast enough," Devavrata said, managing a smile. "Took everything I had."
Vikrama followed, his cloak still damp from yesterday, voice even. "Close call, Kshema's no slouch. He's pissed."
"He'll get over it," Devavrata replied, though Kshema's glare lingered in his mind, envy turning to something harder. "Or he won't."
Aruni kicked at the dirt, grinning. "He didn't like that wind bit, thought he had you."
"Almost did," Devavrata said, his tone light but honest. "He's good, damn good."
Vikrama nodded, glancing at the trees. "Good's not enough for him, winning is. Watch that."
Devavrata's lips twitched, a shadow of understanding, Kshema's pride, a mirror to his own once, wrestling Ganga's silence. "I will," he said, his voice firm, the win a milestone but the strain a warning.
The forest settled, the breeze soft now, the clearing quiet save for the creak of swaying targets. Devavrata shifted his bow, ready to move, but a rustle stirred, low, sharp, from the woods' edge. He paused, hand tightening, the runes flaring faintly.