Dawn broke slow over the ashram, the sky a faint gray streaked with pink, the air crisp with the promise of day. Devavrata stood at the edge of the compound, the celestial bow in hand, its runes glowing soft in the half-light. Last night's fire still burned in his mind—Parashurama's voice like thunder, the tale of blood and wrath, Dronaresh's clan just a speck in that storm. His boots scuffed the dirt, the Ganga's pulse a steady hum, but sleep had dodged him, leaving his eyes sharp, scanning the trees.
Kshema leaned against a post nearby, his bow slung loose, his bandaged arm flexing as he stretched. "That old man's stories," he said, his voice rough from the night. "All noise—doesn't change what's coming."
Aruni sat on a stump, restringing his short bow, his fingers quick but nervous. "Coming? You think Dronaresh'll hit us here?"
Vikrama crouched by the fire pit, coaxing last night's embers back to life, his voice low. "He swore it—burn the ashram. Man like that doesn't bluff."
Devavrata nodded, his gaze fixed on the forest's edge, shadows shifting in the early light. "He's got nothing left to lose," he said, his tone steady. "Means he'll try hard—stay ready."
A sharp whistle cut the air—high and fast—an arrow streaking from the trees, its tip wrapped in flaming cloth, thudding into the ashram's wooden wall. Flames licked up quick, catching the dry timber, and more arrows followed, a dozen or so, raining down with fire and smoke.
"Raid!" Devavrata shouted, bow up, wind stirring at his call. "Get to cover—now!"
Outcasts burst from the woods—twenty, maybe more—ragged and wild, their cloaks flapping as they charged, bows and spears in hand. Traps snapped up behind them—ropes and spikes hidden in the grass—rigged to catch anyone chasing back. Dronaresh led them, gaunt and fierce, his voice barking over the chaos. "Burn it—leave nothing!"
Devavrata spun, his voice sharp. "Aruni—left wall! Vikrama—right! Kshema—with me!" He loosed a wind-shot, a gust roaring out, slamming into a volley of fire arrows, dousing their flames mid-air, sending them spinning harmless to the ground.
Aruni bolted left, his bow shaking as he nocked an arrow. "Left—got it!" He fired, the shot winging an outcast's arm, making him drop his spear with a yell.
Vikrama moved right, steady and fast, his arrow finding a man's leg—clean through—toppling him into the dirt. "Right's pinned," he called, nocking again, eyes locked on the rush.
Kshema stepped up beside Devavrata, his bow drawn, his voice a snarl. "Finally—let's kill them!" He loosed two shots quick—one pierced an outcast's chest, the other his throat—both dropping hard, blood soaking the grass.
Devavrata summoned another gust, stronger now, a howl that swept the ashram's front, knocking fire arrows aside and pushing back a wave of attackers. "Hold the line—don't let them close!" A flame caught the roof's edge, smoke curling up, and he shifted his wind, blasting it out before it spread.
Dronaresh charged closer, a torch in one hand, his bow in the other, his eyes wild. "For my boys—burn it all!" He flung the torch at a stack of crates, flames leaping high as it hit, and loosed an arrow at Devavrata—fast, jagged, aimed for his chest.
Devavrata twisted, wind snapping the shot wide, the arrow burying in a post with a thud. "He's pushing hard—focus him!" He fired back, his wind-shot grazing Dronaresh's shoulder, tearing cloth but not stopping him.
Kshema laughed, fierce and loud, his next arrow taking an outcast through the eye, dropping him dead. "Focus? I'll pin him to a tree!" He fired again, another falling, his precision cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Aruni ducked a spear thrust, his voice high as he shot back, hitting the man's hip. "They're everywhere—I can't keep up!"
"Stay with me," Vikrama called, stepping to Aruni's side, his arrow sinking into a chest—dead center—the outcast crumpling. "Breathe—aim—shoot. You're doing fine."
Parashurama emerged from his hut, axe in hand, his broad frame a shadow against the rising smoke. He stood still, watching, his eyes glinting in the dawn, the axe resting easy on his shoulder. No move, no shout—just a test, cold and hard, letting them fight.
Devavrata caught his gaze, a flicker of understanding—prove it, stand tall. He loosed another wind-shot, a blast that scattered a knot of outcasts, sending their fire arrows tumbling into the dirt. "We've got this—push them back!"
Kshema charged forward, bow blazing, three more shots—three more down—blood pooling fast under his feet. "Back? I'll bury them!" His voice carried a grin, wild and alive, syncing with Devavrata's lead.
The raid faltered, outcasts stumbling over traps, their numbers thinning—half down, the rest wavering. Dronaresh snarled, torch gone, his bow trembling as he nocked again. "You'll pay—every one of you!" He fired, the arrow winging Vikrama's arm, drawing blood but not stopping him.
Vikrama grunted, firing back—his shot grazed Dronaresh's leg, slowing him. "He's slipping—finish it!"
Devavrata summoned a final gust, a roar that slammed the last fire arrows into the ground, dousing them in a swirl of dust and wind. "He's done—drive them out!" His arrow flew, hitting an outcast's shoulder, toppling him into the retreat.
Dronaresh backed off, his voice a ragged yell over the chaos. "This isn't over—I'll raze it yet!" He turned, limping fast, his remaining men scrambling after him, vanishing into the trees as the dawn light broke full.
The ashram stood, smoke curling from scorched patches, the ground littered with bodies and broken arrows. Devavrata lowered his bow, wind fading, his breath steadying. "They're gone—for now."
Parashurama stepped forward, axe still, his voice a low growl. "Held your ground—not bad." His eyes swept them—Devavrata, Kshema, Vikrama, Aruni—a nod, faint but real, before he turned back to his hut, leaving them in the quiet.
Kshema wiped blood from his hands, his smirk sharp. "Not bad? We crushed them. Next time, I end him."
Devavrata glanced at him, a faint smile tugging his lips. "You and me both—he's not done yet."
Aruni sank to the ground, bow across his lap, his voice shaky but proud. "We did it—I hit some!"
Vikrama flexed his grazed arm, blood trickling slow, his tone even. "More than some—grew teeth today, kid."
Devavrata knelt by the fire pit, the Ganga's pulse strong, a steady thread through the fight. The ashram stood—scarred, but whole—their stand a mark, a bond forged in blood and flame. Kshema's eyes met his, a flicker there—not rivalry now, something closer, harder to name.