Night fell heavy over the ashram, the forest a wall of black beyond the flickering torchlight. Devavrata sat on a wooden bench near the fire pit, the celestial bow resting across his knees, its runes glowing faintly in the dark. The hunt from earlier stuck with him—those ragged arrows flying from the trees, Kshema's blood on the dirt, that whisper about the axe paying. His fingers tapped the bow, the Ganga's pulse steady in his chest, but sleep wouldn't come. Something was building out there.
Aruni slumped beside him, poking the fire with a stick, his face tight. "Think they'll come back? Those shooters?"
"Maybe," Devavrata said, keeping his voice calm. "Keep your bow close tonight."
Vikrama leaned against a post nearby, sharpening his knife with slow, even strokes. "They're not done—those arrows meant business."
Kshema paced at the edge of the light, his arm bandaged from the graze, his voice sharp. "Let them try—I'll bury them next time."
Devavrata glanced at him, steady. "Next time, we're ready—not just you."
Kshema snorted, kicking a pebble into the dark. "Ready's fine—I still don't need a team."
A sharp twang cut the air—an arrow whizzing from the trees, thudding into the bench an inch from Devavrata's leg. He jumped up, bow in hand, wind stirring at his call. "Now—cover!"
Four more arrows followed—crude, wobbly—five shadows bursting from the woods, outcasts in tattered cloaks, their bows drawn. They aimed for the ashram's edge, targeting the group by the fire.
"Behind me!" Devavrata shouted, stepping forward, wind surging from his breath—a quick gust scattering two shots into the dirt. "Aruni—left! Vikrama—right!"
Aruni scrambled to his feet, nocking an arrow with shaky hands. "Left—got it!" He fired, the shot winging one outcast in the shoulder, dropping him with a yelp.
Vikrama moved fast, his arrow finding another's leg—clean, precise—sending the man sprawling. "Right's down," he called, voice steady, nocking again.
The three still standing loosed again, arrows flying wild but close—too close. Devavrata summoned a stronger wind, a howl that bent their shots wide, one slamming into a tree trunk with a crack. "Push them back—now!"
Aruni fired again, his arrow grazing an outcast's arm, making him stumble. "I hit him!" he said, surprise breaking through his nerves.
Vikrama took his second shot—chest this time, dead center—the outcast collapsing without a sound. "Two left," he said, eyes locked on the trees.
Kshema's voice roared from behind, late but fierce. "Out of my way!" He charged in, bow drawn, loosing two arrows in quick succession—one through an outcast's thigh, the other piercing a shoulder. Both dropped, groaning, their bows clattering to the ground.
Devavrata turned, wind fading, his breath steadying. "Took your time."
Kshema smirked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Didn't need to rush—cleaned up your mess."
The last outcast stood, cornered, his bow trembling as he backed against a tree. Devavrata stepped closer, wind swirling faintly, voice firm. "Drop it—who sent you?"
The man—gaunt, scarred—spat on the ground, his voice rough. "Dronaresh—he's coming for the axe-man's blood." His eyes darted, wild, defiant.
Parashurama's shadow loomed sudden and huge, axe in hand, his glare silencing the scout mid-breath. "Dronaresh," he growled, the name a stone dropped in still water. "A ghost I buried—let him rise." He swung the axe down—not at the man, but into the earth beside him, the blade sinking deep, a warning that froze the air.
The scout flinched, dropping his bow, hands up. "He—he's got more—won't stop!"
"Won't matter," Parashurama said, yanking the axe free, his voice cold, final. "Tie him—rest of you, clean this up." He turned, striding back to the ashram, his eyes flicking to the woods, dark and hard.
Devavrata grabbed a rope from the bench, tossing it to Vikrama. "Bind him—quick."
Vikrama nodded, looping the rope around the scout's wrists, pulling tight. "He's not lying—more's coming."
Aruni stood by the fire, bow still in hand, his voice small but steady. "Dronaresh—who's that?"
"Old enemy," Devavrata said, his mind racing—the traps, the arrows, now a name. "Parashurama's kill—one he left breathing."
Kshema kicked one of the fallen bows, his smirk gone, replaced by a grudging squint at Devavrata. "You handled that—not bad, river-son."
"Had to," Devavrata said, meeting his gaze, keeping it simple. "You finished it—good shots."
Kshema shrugged, but his eyes lingered, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—before he turned away. "Next time, I'm first—won't wait for your wind."
"Fair enough," Devavrata said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Just hit what you aim at."
Vikrama dragged the tied scout to the ashram steps, sitting him hard against the wood. "Five down—how many's he got left?"
"No idea," Devavrata said, picking up a stray arrow—rough, chipped, same as before. "Enough to keep trying."
Aruni sank to the ground, breathing hard, his bow across his lap. "That was fast—thought we were done."
"You held up," Devavrata said, crouching beside him, voice warm. "Two hits—better than you think."
Aruni managed a shaky grin, wiping dirt from his face. "Guess so—still scared me."
"Scared's normal," Vikrama said, wiping his knife clean, his tone even. "Kept shooting—that's what matters."
Kshema paced again, his bandaged arm flexing, voice low. "Scared or not, they're dead if they come back—I'm ready now."
Devavrata stood, the bow warm in his hands, the Ganga's pulse strong—a steady thread through the night's chaos. He glanced at Parashurama's retreating figure—the sage's words echoing, a ghost I buried. Too calm, too sure, like he'd seen this before and didn't care.
The fire crackled, casting shadows on the ashram walls, the forest quiet now but heavy with weight. Devavrata turned to the trees, torchlight barely reaching their edge, a rustle stirring—soft, quick, then gone.
"Think he's out there?" Aruni asked, his voice dropping, eyes wide.
"Might be," Devavrata said, his grip tightening on the bow, runes flaring faintly. "Or he's sending more—either way, we're not waiting blind."
Kshema stopped pacing, his bow slung over his shoulder, his glare fixed on the dark. "Let him send an army—I'll take them solo if I have to."
"Not solo," Devavrata said, his voice firm, steady. "We're in this—we all are."
Vikrama nodded, sheathing his knife, his eyes on the scout. "Together's why we're standing—keep that."
The night stretched on, the fire popping low, the air cool and still. Devavrata sat again, bow across his knees, the scout's words—Dronaresh—a name now, a threat taking shape. Parashurama's mutter lingered, a chill in the dark—let him rise—and the forest waited, silent but alive.