Afternoon sun dipped low over the ashram, its light slanting through the trees, painting the ground in long, golden streaks. Devavrata sat by the fire pit, the celestial bow across his knees, its runes catching the glow as he cleaned dirt from the string. Yesterday's gully trap gnawed at him—Kshema's blood on the spikes, Dronaresh's grin, the sting of his own cut arm now bandaged tight. His fingers moved steady, the Ganga's pulse a calm hum, but his eyes flicked to the forest, waiting for the next move.
Kshema paced nearby, his shoulder and leg wrapped, his bow slung over his back despite the limp. "That rat's still out there," he said, his voice rough with restless fire. "Next time he shows, I'm ending him."
Aruni sat on a log, restringing his short bow, his voice quick. "Ending him? He keeps slipping away. What if he hits us again?"
Vikrama leaned against a tree, sharpening his knife with slow, even strokes, his tone steady. "He will. Man's got nothing left but hate—makes him dangerous."
A rustle broke the quiet—an outcast stumbling from the woods, ragged and thin, his hands up, a scrap of cloth clutched tight. "Message," he croaked, his voice shaking as he dropped to his knees. "From Dronaresh. He says he's burning the sacred grove tonight—axe-man's holy ground. Come stop him if you've got the guts."
Devavrata stood, bow in hand, wind stirring faintly at his call. "Sacred grove? That's a day's ride—why tell us?"
Kshema smirked, stepping closer, his voice sharp. "Guts? I'll shove his back down his throat. It's a challenge."
Vikrama sheathed his knife, his eyes narrowing. "Challenge or bait. He wants us running—probably rigged the way."
Aruni gripped his bow, his voice small. "Bait? You mean a trap again?"
"Likely," Devavrata said, his tone firm, eyeing the outcast. "Where's he now?"
The man flinched, his voice low. "Didn't say. Just told me to run here, drop this, and go." He scrambled up, bolting back into the trees before they could grab him.
Devavrata turned, heading for Parashurama's hut, the others trailing close. The sage sat outside, axe across his lap, his broad frame still as stone, his eyes glinting in the fading light. "Heard it," he said, his voice a deep growl, cutting through before Devavrata spoke. "Grove's old—sacred to some. Not me."
"Dronaresh says he'll burn it," Devavrata said, standing tall, meeting his gaze. "Wants you there, sounds like."
Parashurama laughed, a short, harsh sound that shook the air. "Wants me? Let him try. I'm not chasing a ghost's tantrum. You go—handle it." He waved a hand, dismissive, his eyes hard. "Prove you're worth the steel I've forged."
Kshema stepped up, his smirk wide. "Handle it? I'll bury him and his fire both."
Devavrata nodded, the Ganga's pulse strong, a steady thread through the sage's words. "We'll go. If it's a trap, we're ready." He turned to the others, his voice sharp. "Gear up—sun's dropping fast."
They moved quick—bows strung, quivers full—heading out as dusk settled, the forest darkening around them. The path wound tight, trees closing in, the air cool and thick with pine. Devavrata led, wind at his fingertips, Kshema beside him, Aruni and Vikrama close behind.
"Grove's that way," Vikrama said, pointing west, his voice low. "But he won't be there—bet he's waiting closer."
"Closer's fine," Kshema said, his bow drawn, his limp barely slowing him. "Saves me the walk."
A twig snapped—loud, deliberate—and shadows erupted from the brush ahead. Twenty ragged men, outcasts in tattered cloaks, bows and spears raised, fanning out fast. Dronaresh stood at their center, gaunt and wild, his voice barking. "Axe-man's mine—bring him out!"
Devavrata loosed a wind-shot, a gust roaring through, scattering their first volley of arrows into the trees. "He's not here," he shouted, bow up, wind swirling. "You've got us instead!"
Dronaresh's grin faltered, his eyes darting, voice rising. "Where's the axe? Face me!" He fired, the arrow streaking—Devavrata's wind bent it aside, thudding into a trunk.
Kshema laughed, fierce and loud, his bow blazing. "Face you? I'll do it!" Two shots flew—one sank into an outcast's chest, the other his throat—both dropping hard, blood soaking the dirt.
Aruni ducked behind a tree, his voice high as he fired, winging a man's arm. "They're too many—I can't hit them all!"
"Stay low," Vikrama called, his arrow finding a leg, toppling another. "Pick your shots—we've got this."
Devavrata summoned a stronger gust, a howl that knocked half the band off their feet, spears clattering as they fell. "Spread out—don't let them group!" He fired, his wind-shot slamming an outcast into a tree, bones crunching loud.
Dronaresh roared, charging closer, his bow trembling as he nocked again. "Cowards hiding behind pups—where is he?" His arrow flew, grazing Vikrama's shoulder, blood welling fast.
Vikrama grunted, firing back—clean through a man's hip—his voice steady. "He's not coming. Deal with us."
Kshema stepped up, his shots relentless—three more down, blood pooling under his feet, his voice alive. "Deal with me, rat!" He loosed again, clipping Dronaresh's cloak, tearing it as he dodged.
Devavrata's wind roared wider, scattering the band's footing, breaking their line. "He misjudged—push them!" His arrow flew, hitting a shoulder, sending another sprawling.
The outcasts wavered, their numbers thinning—ten left, then eight—stumbling back under the onslaught. Dronaresh's glare burned, his voice a yell over the chaos. "Where's the axe? Face me!" He fired wild, the shot sailing high, desperation cracking his stance.
Kshema's next arrow grazed his leg, drawing blood, his laugh sharp. "No axe—just my steel. Run, coward!" He nocked again, syncing with Devavrata's wind, a rhythm building between them.
Devavrata blasted another gust, toppling two more, their bows snapping as they hit the ground. "He's losing—finish it!" His wind carried Kshema's shot, driving it deep into an outcast's chest, a clean kill.
Dronaresh backed off, his band breaking, fleeing into the dark. "This isn't done," he snarled, limping fast, his voice fading. "I'll get him yet!"
The forest stilled, dusk settling thick, the ground littered with bodies and broken weapons. Devavrata lowered his bow, wind fading, his breath steadying. "He wanted Parashurama. Got us."
Kshema wiped sweat from his brow, his smirk real, eyes meeting Devavrata's with a spark—not rivalry, but something solid. "Us is enough. Next time, he's mine."
Aruni stepped out, his voice shaky but proud. "We drove them off—again!"
Vikrama pressed a hand to his shoulder, blood seeping slow, his tone dry. "Drove them hard. He's slipping—bad guess on his part."