The midday sun blazed down, scorching the forest floor, its heat clawing through the sparse canopy to bake the dry earth below. Devavrata walked a rough trail, the celestial bow firm in his hands, its runes catching the light in faint flashes. Last night's ambush stuck in his head—those jagged arrows slicing out of the dark, the scout snarling Dronaresh's name, Parashurama brushing it off like it was nothing worth his time. His boots crunched over loose stones, the Ganga's pulse a steady beat in his chest, but the air felt off—too quiet, too thick for an ordinary day.
Kshema kept stride beside him, his crimson leather coated in trail dust, his bow slung over his shoulder like a dare. "Another patrol?" he said, his voice rough with a restless edge. "We should've hunted those rats down last night instead of sitting by the fire."
Devavrata kept his eyes on the trees, watching their branches hang still in the heat. "Hunting blind gets you dead fast. We scout, we figure them out, then we strike."
Kshema kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the brush. "Figure them out? I'd rather smash their heads and move on."
"Smash heads when we know where to aim," Devavrata said, his tone calm but solid. "Right now, keep your eyes open—they're near."
Kshema smirked, a quick flash that didn't touch his eyes. "Near or far, I'll make them regret showing up."
The trail dropped into a ravine, its walls jagged and steep, loose gravel slipping under their feet with every step. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of sun-baked rock and dry pine, shadows pooling long despite the daylight above. Devavrata slowed, raising a hand slightly. "Hold on a minute. You hear anything?"
Kshema stopped, tilting his head, but before he could speak, a low groan broke the silence. A net shot up from the ground, coarse ropes snapping tight, yanking them both off their feet in a tangle of dust and hemp. It hauled them high, swinging between the ravine walls, their bodies pressed awkward against each other in the trap.
"What is this!" Kshema shouted, thrashing hard against the ropes, his bow pinned useless against his chest. "Get me down—I'll kill whoever did this!"
Devavrata twisted, his own bow caught under his arm, wind stirring faintly in his hands but no use in the tight weave. "It's a trap," he said, keeping his voice steady despite the sudden jolt. "They set this for us—look below."
Men stepped out from the shadows below, a dozen or so, their cloaks torn and patched, faces lean and hard under the sun's glare. They carried chipped bows and spears, spreading out slow and deliberate. At their front stood a man, thin and scarred, his hair a greasy mess, his eyes dark with a raw, burning edge. He looked up, his voice scraping out like a knife on rock. "Caught you easy, axe-man's dogs. Didn't even have to try hard."
Kshema glared down, his voice sharp as he struggled. "Who are you, you filthy wreck? Let us down and I'll snap your neck myself!"
The man grinned, a cracked twist of his lips showing yellowed teeth. "Call me Dronaresh. Used to be a king, till your master ripped it all away. You're not snapping anything up there."
Devavrata stopped fighting the net, his eyes locking on Dronaresh, sizing him up—skinny, scarred, but standing like he still had some fight left. "If you're after Parashurama, why waste time with us? Go take him on."
Dronaresh laughed, a dry, barking sound that bounced off the ravine walls. "Take him on? I tried that once—didn't turn out like I planned." He paced a step below, his men gripping their weapons tighter, watching him like they were waiting for a signal. "You're his crew, his little followers. That's why I'm here."
Kshema spat through the ropes, his voice thick with scorn. "Followers? You're a ghost picking fights with shadows. Let me loose and I'll give you a real one."
"Be quiet," Devavrata said, his tone low and sharp, cutting through Kshema's rant. He kept his eyes on Dronaresh. "You've got us trapped. Say what you want—what's Parashurama to you?"
Dronaresh stopped pacing, his hands curling into fists, his voice dropping to something rougher, heavier. "What he is? He's my ruin—everything I had, gone because of him." He looked up at them, his stare shifting, like he wasn't seeing the net anymore, just something long past. "I wasn't always this mess. Had a hold up in the hills, a small place, nothing fancy. Built it myself, stone by stone, for my family."
His voice softened a little, catching on the words, and he rubbed a scarred hand over his jaw, smudging dirt deeper into the lines. "We didn't have much—barely kept the roof up some winters. But it was ours. Had a wife who'd hum while she stirred the pot, two boys who'd tackle me in the yard, laughing like they'd never stop. That was my life—till he showed up."
Kshema rolled his eyes, his voice cutting in cold. "Save your sad tale—I'm not here to feel bad for you."
Devavrata shot him a hard look, firm enough to hush him. "Let him talk," he said, then turned back to Dronaresh. "Go on—what happened?"
Dronaresh's eyes darkened, his hands shaking as he spoke, the words coming slow and heavy. "Parashurama happened. One night, years back, I woke up to fire—red and wild, lighting up the sky. I grabbed my sword, ran to the hall, yelling for my men to get ready, thinking we could stand our ground. Dumb hope." He paused, his breath shaky, his gaze dropping to the dirt below. "He didn't come quiet—rolled in like a storm, axe swinging, smashing through everything I'd made."
The ravine went still, the heat pressing down hard, his voice the only sound—a low, broken thread weaving pain into the air. Devavrata felt it land, the Ganga's pulse flickering—a hint of his own losses, but this cut deeper, rawer.
Kshema shifted in the net, his voice gruff. "Storms blow over—kings who can't handle them don't last."
"Shut up," Devavrata said, his tone steady, holding Dronaresh's eyes. "What'd he do—to your family?"
Dronaresh's jaw tightened, his voice cracking as he started again. "My family—he took them. That's where it ends, and where it begins."
....
Devavrata held his gaze, the Ganga's pulse flickering in his chest, a quiet ache stirring—his own mother's absence was a shadow, but this was blood and fire. "Tell us," he said, his voice steady, urging him on. "What happened to them?"
Dronaresh's breath hitched, his hands clenching into fists, knuckles white against the dirt-streaked skin. He took a step back, like the memory pushed him, his voice low and shaking. "What happened? He burned it all—Parashurama. That night, when the fire came, I thought we had a chance. I was wrong."
He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes drifting past them, seeing something far off. "My wife—Lalita—she was in the hall with me. We'd been eating, just bread and stew, the boys laughing over some game they'd made up. Then the shouting started outside—my men, yelling about a shadow moving fast. I grabbed my sword, told her to stay back, but she wouldn't listen. She never did when it mattered."
Kshema shifted in the net, his voice sharp with impatience. "Get to it already—I'm not here for your dinner tales."
Devavrata shot him a look, firm and quick. "Let him finish," he said, then turned back to Dronaresh. "Go on—she didn't stay back?"
Dronaresh shook his head, a faint, broken smile tugging at his lips, gone as quick as it came. "No. She grabbed a dagger from the table—little thing, barely sharp enough to cut meat. Ran to the door, shouting for the boys to get out, to hide. I saw her silhouette against the flames—hair loose, voice loud, telling me to fight. Then he was there—Parashurama, axe in hand, stepping through the smoke like a demon."
His voice cracked, tears spilling now, cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "She didn't hesitate—charged him, dagger up, screaming their names—Ranesh, Kavi—telling them to run faster. I yelled for her to stop, but it was too late. His axe swung once—fast, clean—took her head right off. It hit the floor at my feet, rolling, her eyes still open, staring up at me like she was asking why I didn't move."
Devavrata's stomach turned, the image sinking in—blood, fire, a wife gone in a heartbeat. He kept his voice low, steady. "Your boys—what about them?"
Dronaresh's hands shook harder, his voice dropping to a whisper, breaking apart. "Ranesh was nine—tall for his age, always dragging his brother around. Kavi was six, small, always giggling, trailing after him. They'd been by the hearth when it started, playing with sticks they called spears. Lalita's scream got them moving—Ranesh grabbed Kavi's hand, pulled him toward the back door, out to the yard."
He sank to his knees, his voice choking as he pressed his hands to the dirt. "I saw them go—two little shadows against the firelight. I shouted for them to keep running, to get to the well and hide. But he was faster—Parashurama. He cut through my men like they were nothing, swords breaking on him, bodies piling up. He reached the yard, found them by the well—Ranesh pushing Kavi behind him, trying to be brave."
Tears dripped onto the ground, his voice a ragged sob now. "I ran after them, sword out, yelling his name—cursing him, begging him, anything to make him stop. Didn't matter. He swung that axe—one blow, down hard. Caught them both together—Ranesh's head split open, Kavi crushed under him, their blood soaking the stones. I heard it—the crack—like wood snapping, loud over the fire, over my own screams. They were gone, just like that, crumpled by the well, my boys."
Kshema snorted, his voice cold and cutting. "Kings who can't protect their own don't deserve them—sounds like you failed."
Devavrata's jaw tightened, his voice sharp. "Shut your mouth, Kshema—he's not done."
Dronaresh didn't look up, his hands digging into the dirt, his voice steadying, turning bitter. "Failed? Yeah, I failed. I lunged at him—my sword hit his arm, snapped like a twig. He laughed—deep, loud, like I was a joke. Grabbed me by the throat, pinned me to the wall, made me watch as the fire ate everything—my hall, my men, my life. The roof caved in, sparks flying, and all I could see was their bodies by the well, still, blood pooling under them."
He stood slow, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve, his voice hardening, raw with hate. "He didn't kill me. Dropped me there, said I wasn't worth the steel—just a worm to crawl off. Left me breathing, surrounded by ash, my wife's head at my feet, my boys broken a few steps away. That's what he wanted—for me to live with it, to wake up every day seeing their faces, hearing that crack."
The ravine fell silent, the heat pressing down, his words sinking into the air like stones into water. His men stood behind him, ragged and tense, their weapons still raised, but their eyes flicked to him, uneasy, caught in his grief. Devavrata felt it heavy—a man torn apart, not just beaten, a wound that wouldn't close.
Kshema laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Cry all you want—doesn't change you're weak."
"Enough," Devavrata said, his voice firm, cutting through. He looked down at Dronaresh, seeing the pain beneath the rage—a father, a husband, left to rot. "He let you live—why come after us now?"
Dronaresh's eyes snapped up, glinting with something fierce, his voice low and dark. "Because you're his—his new blood, his pride. I can't touch him—he's too big, too strong. But you? I can take you, break you, make him feel what I've felt every day since that night. I'll burn his ashram, his legacy, till he's got nothing left to stand on."
Devavrata tensed, wind swirling faintly in his trapped hands, his voice steady. "You think that brings them back—your wife, your boys?"
"No," Dronaresh said, his voice a growl, his grin twisting bitter and broken. "It doesn't bring them back. But it makes him hurt—makes him see their faces like I do, every time I close my eyes. That's enough."
His men shifted, tightening their grips, arrows nocked, ready to hold the net firm. The silence stretched, heavy with his words—grief and hate twisted tight, aimed straight at them. Devavrata's chest ached, the Ganga's pulse strong but unsettled, Dronaresh's story a weight he couldn't shake.
A faint crunch broke the quiet—boots on stone, distant but sure. Dronaresh's head jerked up, his eyes darting to the ravine's rim. A shadow stood there—broad, still—Parashurama, axe gleaming in the sun, watching from afar, his presence a silent thunder rolling through the air.
"Next time," Dronaresh hissed, his voice tight, fear slicing through his fury. He waved his men back, their steps quick and clumsy as they retreated, scrambling up the slope, leaving the net swinging in the heat, Dronaresh's last glare burning up at them before he vanished.
Devavrata watched them go, the Ganga's pulse steadying, his mind heavy with the tale—wife beheaded, boys crushed, a life reduced to ash. Kshema shifted beside him, silent for once, the weight lingering in the still air.