The forest sighed with a gentle dusk, its canopy a soft blur of green and gold, the last light fading into a quiet haze. Devavrata walked a winding path, the celestial bow slung across his back, its runes dim in the twilight. Yesterday's duel burned in his mind, Kshema's snarl, the wind-shot splitting the target, pride and strain twisting together. His hands flexed, the Ganga's pulse a faint hum, steady but restless, as he followed Parashurama's call to a grove beyond the ashram.
The sage stood in a clearing, his broad frame rooted amid ancient trees, the axe resting against a stone, its edge catching the dying sun. A single target hung from a branch, straw, weathered, swaying faintly in the evening breeze. His voice rumbled, low and firm. "No storm tonight, river-son. No wind tricks, just you and the bow."
Devavrata stepped closer, bow shifting in his grip. "What's the lesson?"
Parashurama's grin flickered, sly but calm. "Stillness, inside you. Shoot with your eyes shut, feel the rhythm." He gestured to the target, thirty paces off. "War's chaos, this cuts through."
Devavrata nodded, nocking an arrow, his brow creasing. "Eyes shut? How do I aim?"
"Stop seeing," Parashurama said, his tone sharp, patient. "Hear it, the bow, the air, your blood. Draw."
Devavrata closed his eyes, the world fading to black, the forest's hum rising, leaves rustling, a distant owl's call. He drew, the bow's string taut, its faint song vibrating in his hands. Shantanu's voice crept in, why do I fear you?, a whisper from Hastinapura, heavy with doubt. He loosed, the arrow thudded into the dirt, wide, a miss that sank his chest.
Parashurama's grunt was soft, not mocking. "Too loud in there, quiet it. Again."
Devavrata opened his eyes, exhaling, then shut them once more. "Quiet," he muttered, drawing again. Ganga's silence pressed now, a void by the river, her absence a weight he'd carried too long. The bow trembled, the rhythm slipping, he fired, the arrow grazing a tree, splintering bark. He cursed under his breath, eyes snapping open.
Kshema's voice cut through, sharp and close. "Struggling, river-son?" He leaned against a trunk, crimson leather stark, bow loose in his hand, smirk curling. "Monk nonsense, waste of time."
Parashurama shot him a glare, his voice a growl. "Mock it, noble's brat, try it. Show me."
Kshema laughed, stepping up, his tone dripping scorn. "Fine, watch this." He shut his eyes, nocking fast, his stance cocky. He fired, the arrow sailed high, burying itself in a branch nowhere near the target. His smirk vanished, his jaw tightening. "Stupid trick," he snapped, slinging his bow. "I'm done with this." He stormed off, footsteps crunching into the dusk.
Parashurama's grin returned, dry and edged. "Impatience, his chain. Back to you, river-son, focus."
Devavrata steadied himself, closing his eyes again, the bow warm in his grip. "Focus," he whispered, drawing slow. Shantanu's fear surfaced, more than I dreamed, and Ganga's silence loomed, a shadow over his heart. He breathed deep, letting them drift, not fighting, not clinging. The bow's song rose, clear now, string, wood, his pulse aligning. The Ganga stirred, a thread of calm, and he loosed, the arrow sang, thudding into the target's edge, a solid hit.
He opened his eyes, blinking, the straw swaying with his shot. "Got it," he said, voice soft, surprise mingling with relief.
Parashurama stepped closer, nodding, his eyes sharp. "Edge, not center, still good. You found it, the stillness." His voice softened, rare and low. "War needs this, or it breaks you."
Devavrata lowered the bow, the hit sinking in, a quiet triumph, different from the storm's rush. "Breaks you," he echoed, turning to the sage. "This keeps it whole?"
"Aye," Parashurama said, resting a hand on the axe. "Wrath burns, calm endures. You'll need both." He turned, pacing back to the stone, leaving Devavrata with the target and the night.
Devavrata stood alone, the grove silent save for the breeze, the bow's rhythm still humming in his hands. He closed his eyes again, drawing without nocking, feeling it, the stillness, a core beneath the noise. Shantanu's fear faded, Ganga's silence softened, not gone, but distant. "Peace feels stronger than wrath," he whispered, the words a vow to the dark.
Aruni's voice broke the quiet, hesitant but bright, as he stepped from the trees. "You hit it, eyes closed?"
"Felt it," Devavrata said, opening his eyes, offering a small smile. "Took a few tries."
Aruni grinned, clutching his own bow. "Looked hard, Kshema didn't like it."
"He doesn't," Devavrata replied, glancing at the noble's trail. "Likes winning, not waiting."
Vikrama emerged behind Aruni, his cloak blending with the dusk, voice steady. "Waiting's half the fight, Kshema's too hot for it."
"Hot's his strength," Devavrata said, his tone even, understanding. "Burns him too, saw it today."
Aruni tilted his head, curious. "You weren't burning, looked steady."
"Had to be," Devavrata said, the bow shifting in his grip. "Mind was loud, got it quiet."
Vikrama nodded, his eyes on the target. "Quiet's rare, good you found it."
Devavrata's lips twitched, a flicker of pride, different from the duel, deeper. Kshema's impatience, his own doubts, they parted here, this stillness a step beyond. The Ganga's pulse thrummed, a calm he'd forged, not borrowed.
The grove darkened, stars piercing the canopy, the air cool and still. Devavrata slung his bow, ready to head back, but a rustle stirred, soft, sharp, from the trees' edge. He paused, hand tightening, the runes flaring faintly.