Twilight bled across the forest, the sky a bruised purple streaked with fading gold, the air sharp with the bite of coming night. Devavrata strode through a narrow pass, the celestial bow humming in his grip, its runes flaring bright against the dusk, a beacon of power forged in divine fire. The weight of yesterday's trap lingered—Dronaresh's desperate bait, Kshema's blood on the spikes, a vow still burning in his chest. His boots pounded the earth, the Ganga's pulse surging like a river unbound, a torrent of energy coiling through his veins, ready to erupt.
Kshema matched his pace, his crimson leather glinting like molten flame, his bow drawn taut, every step a declaration of war. His wounds from the gully—shoulder and leg—were wrapped tight, but his eyes blazed, a warrior's spirit unshackled. "He's out there," he said, his voice a low growl, thick with bloodlust. "That rat Dronaresh. I smell his filth—this time, I rip him apart."
Aruni followed close, his short bow trembling in his hands, his voice quick and edged with nerves. "Rip him apart? He's got men—lots of them. What if it's another trap?"
Vikrama brought up the rear, his knife sheathed, his bandaged shoulder stiff but steady, his tone calm as stone. "Trap or not, we end it here. He's got no more tricks—only desperation."
Devavrata's gaze swept the pass—walls of jagged rock towering high, trees thinning into skeletal shadows ahead, the air pulsing with a stillness that screamed danger. "He's cornered us before," he said, his voice resonant, carrying the weight of a storm. "This time, we corner him. Stay sharp—unleash everything."
A roar shattered the quiet—flames exploding across the pass, a barricade of logs and tangled brush igniting with a thunderous crack, a wall of fire sealing their path. Arrows rained from the ridges above, their tips ablaze, streaking like meteors through the dusk, thudding into the earth in bursts of sparks and smoke. Outcasts charged down, thirty strong, their ragged cloaks billowing like wraiths, spears and bows gleaming with murderous intent. Dronaresh stood at their heart, gaunt and feral, his scarred face twisted in a snarl, his voice a howl that split the sky. "Burn them to ash! For my blood, for my boys!"
Devavrata raised his bow, wind swirling at his call, a vortex of power spiraling around him, his hair whipping wild in the gust. "To me!" he bellowed, his voice a clap of thunder, shaking the pass. "We break them now!" He loosed a wind-shot, a gale bursting forth with the fury of a tempest, slamming into the fire arrows mid-flight. The flames snuffed out in a scream of air, the shafts shattering into splinters that rained like broken stars, scattering the first wave of outcasts in a whirlwind of chaos.
Kshema laughed, a sound raw and untamed, his bow blazing with speed beyond mortal limits, arrows flying like crimson lightning. "Break them? I'll shred them!" His first shot pierced an outcast's chest, the force exploding through his back in a spray of blood and bone, hurling him into two others, toppling them in a heap. His second arrow followed, a streak of death sinking into a throat, the man choking as he fell, crimson pooling fast beneath him. "Come on, dogs! Taste my steel!"
Aruni ducked low, his voice high as he fired, his arrow winging a man's arm, tearing flesh with a wet rip. "They're too fast—I can't keep up!" His shot trembled, but it struck, the outcast staggering with a howl, clutching the wound.
Vikrama stepped beside him, his bow steady, his arrow soaring with lethal calm, piercing an outcast's eye, the body dropping limp before it hit the ground. "Focus," he said, his voice a blade cutting through the storm. "One at a time—they'll fall."
The barricade roared higher, flames leaping ten feet, a wall of molten wrath spitting embers into the air, smoke choking the pass like a dragon's breath. Dronaresh's lieutenant—a hulking beast of a man, scars crisscrossing his bare chest—stood at its base, a torch in one hand, a spear in the other, his voice booming over the inferno. "Pile it high! Trap them—bleed them dry!" He hurled the torch, igniting a second stack of wood, the fire surging into a blazing fortress, its heat searing the stone walls.
Devavrata's eyes narrowed, the Ganga's pulse pounding like war drums, wind coiling tighter around him, a storm begging release. "That's their anchor," he shouted, his voice echoing with divine might. "Take him down!" He loosed another wind-shot, a cyclone bursting forth, slamming into the barricade. Flames bent back, logs cracking under the force, but the wall held, the lieutenant laughing as he thrust his spear into the blaze, feeding it more.
Kshema's grin widened, feral and unstoppable, his bow a blur of motion, arrows raining like a volley from the heavens. "Anchor? I'll snap him!" Three shots flew in a heartbeat—one sank into an outcast's gut, doubling him over with a scream; another pierced a shoulder, spinning the man into the fire; the third drove through a chest, pinning the body to the barricade, blood sizzling as it burned. "More! Give me more!"
Dronaresh charged closer, his bow trembling with rage, his voice a shriek over the chaos. "You'll pay—every drop of your blood!" He fired, the arrow streaking, a jagged streak of hate aimed at Devavrata's heart. Devavrata spun, wind howling—a gust caught the shot, hurling it back, sinking it deep into an outcast's thigh, the man collapsing with a wail.
"Pay?" Devavrata roared, his voice shaking the pass, wind surging into a maelstrom around him, tearing leaves from trees, rattling stones loose from the walls. "You've taken enough!" He fired, his arrow blazing with wind's fury, a comet of power that slammed an outcast into the ridge, his body bursting against the rock in a spray of red, the impact echoing like a thunderclap.
Kshema laughed again, leaping forward, his bow slung as he drew his dagger, a flash of steel in the firelight. "Enough? I'm just starting!" He charged an outcast swinging a spear, ducking the thrust, his blade slashing up—gut to throat, a fountain of blood painting his leather, the man gurgling as he fell. Another lunged, axe raised—Kshema twisted, driving the dagger into his side, kicking him into the flames, the scream swallowed by the roar.
Aruni fired again, his arrow sinking into a leg, his voice steadying with each shot. "They're dropping—I'm hitting them!" The outcast stumbled, clutching the wound, falling to Vikrama's next arrow—a clean strike through the neck, silencing him.
Vikrama moved like a shadow, his bow a steady rhythm, each shot a death knell—chest, head, chest—three more down, bodies piling at the pass's edge. "They're thinning," he called, his voice cutting through the storm. "Keep it up!"
The barricade pulsed, flames surging outward, a wave of heat blasting the air, embers raining like molten hail. Dronaresh's lieutenant roared, spear thrusting at the fire's base, his scarred bulk a fortress of defiance. "Hold it! Burn them alive!" His men rallied, arrows flying thicker, a hail of fire and steel pressing the disciples back.
Devavrata stepped forward, wind spiraling into a vortex around him, his bow raised, the Ganga's pulse a tidal wave crashing through his soul. "No more!" he bellowed, his voice a god's command, shaking the earth itself. He loosed a wind-shot, a hurricane bursting forth, slamming the barricade with a force that split logs apart, flames roaring back in a fiery backlash, the lieutenant staggering as the wall buckled.
Kshema seized the gap, charging through the fire's edge, his dagger flashing, his voice a battle cry. "You're mine, big man!" He leaped, dodging a spear thrust, his blade sinking deep into the lieutenant's thigh, blood spurting hot. The brute swung, catching Kshema's arm, tearing leather, but Kshema twisted, driving the dagger up—chest, neck—a geyser of red as the man roared, stumbling back into the flames, his torch igniting his own cloak.
...
The pass blazed like a furnace forged by gods, flames roaring skyward from the shattered barricade, a inferno of crimson and gold that painted the twilight in hues of war. Smoke coiled thick, a dragon's shroud choking the air, embers raining down like molten tears of the heavens. Devavrata stood at the heart of the chaos, the celestial bow pulsing in his hands, its runes blazing white-hot, a divine artifact alive with the Ganga's fury. The lieutenant's body burned in the wreckage, his torch-lit cloak a pyre, but the battle raged on, Dronaresh's outcasts pressing with spears and arrows, their ragged forms silhouettes against the firestorm.
Wind spiraled around Devavrata, a vortex of primal power, his eyes glinting with the wrath of a river unbound, his voice booming over the din. "They falter! Crush them!" He raised his bow, the Ganga's pulse surging through his veins like a tidal wave breaking free, wind gathering into a storm that howled with the spirit of Vayu himself. He loosed a shot—a gale-wrapped arrow streaking forth, a comet of destruction blazing through the dusk. It slammed into an outcast charging with a spear, the force exploding his chest in a spray of blood and bone, hurling his broken body back into three others, toppling them into the flames with screams swallowed by the roar.
Kshema fought at his side, a crimson whirlwind of death, his leather scorched and blood-streaked, his bow a blur of motion, arrows flying like bolts from a war god's quiver. "Crush? I'll erase them!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap of defiance, laughter wild and untamed echoing through the pass. He fired, his arrow piercing an outcast's skull, the head bursting in a red mist, the body spinning lifeless into the dirt. Another shot followed, a streak of crimson steel sinking into a chest, the force lifting the man off his feet, pinning him to the barricade's remains, blood sizzling as it met the fire. "More! Bring me more!"
Dronaresh stood atop the ridge, his gaunt frame trembling with rage, his bow drawn, his voice a shriek that split the sky. "You'll burn for my kin! All of you!" He loosed a volley—five arrows tipped with fire, streaking down like vengeful phoenixes, aimed to consume the disciples in a blazing grave. His men rallied, spears thrusting from the smoke, their war cries a desperate hymn to their fallen.
Devavrata spun, wind surging into a maelstrom, his hair whipping wild as the Ganga's pulse flared hot, a divine torrent coursing through his soul. "Not today!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the earth, a god's decree against the chaos. He unleashed a wind-shot, a hurricane bursting forth with a roar that tore the air apart, meeting Dronaresh's arrows head-on. The gale swallowed them, flames snuffed out in a howl, the shafts shattering into dust that glittered like stars in the firelight, raining harmless over the pass.
Kshema seized the moment, leaping onto a fallen log, his bow blazing with relentless fury, arrows raining like a storm of blood and steel. "Your kin's ash—I'll make you join them!" Three shots flew in a heartbeat—one sank into an outcast's throat, blood gushing as he clawed the air; another pierced a gut, the man doubling over with a scream that drowned in his own crimson tide; the third drove through a shoulder, spinning the body into the flames, flesh charring with a sickening hiss. He laughed, a sound raw and victorious, his dagger flashing as he vaulted down, slashing an outcast's chest open, ribs cracking loud under the blow.
Aruni fought from behind a boulder, his short bow trembling but steady, his voice rising with each shot. "They're falling—I'm doing it!" His arrow streaked, sinking into an outcast's thigh, the man stumbling with a howl, blood pooling fast. Another followed, piercing an arm, the spear dropping as the outcast clutched the wound, his cry lost in the storm.
Vikrama stood at his side, his bow a rhythm of death, each shot a precise execution—chest, head, leg—three more down, bodies crumpling like puppets cut loose. "They're breaking," he called, his voice cutting through the chaos, calm as a blade's edge. "Push harder!" His next arrow flew, sinking into an outcast's eye, the body dropping mid-step, blood and brain spilling onto the stone.
The pass shook, the barricade's remnants collapsing under Devavrata's wind, flames surging outward in a fiery wave, embers raining like a meteor shower. Dronaresh's men pressed, their numbers thinning—twenty left, then fifteen—their spears thrusting through the smoke, arrows flying wild but fierce. A hulking outcast charged Devavrata, axe raised high, his roar a beast's cry. Devavrata sidestepped, wind coiling tight, loosing a shot that blasted the man's chest apart, ribs shattering in a red spray, the body soaring back to crash against the ridge, stone cracking under the impact.
Kshema met another, a spearman lunging from the flames—his dagger parried the thrust, steel clashing with a spark, then sank deep into the man's side, twisting hard. Blood poured, the outcast staggering, and Kshema kicked him into the fire, the scream swallowed by the blaze. "Weak!" he spat, spinning to fire an arrow at a bowman on the ridge, the shot piercing his chest, hurling him off the edge to smash into the pass below, bones snapping loud.
Dronaresh's voice rose again, a mad wail over the carnage. "You'll pay—my blood demands it!" He fired, his arrow streaking with fire, aimed at Kshema's back. Devavrata saw it, wind surging—a gust caught the shot, bending it wide, sinking it into an outcast's leg, the man collapsing with a shriek. "Your blood's spent!" Devavrata roared, his bow blazing, a wind-shot tearing through two outcasts at once, their bodies bursting in a twin spray of gore, flung back into the flames.
Kshema laughed, charging another, his dagger slashing a throat, blood arcing high, his bow firing mid-step—another down, chest caved in, a puppet of flesh and bone crumbling to ash. "Spent? I'll bleed them dry!" His voice carried a wild joy, a warrior's soul unleashed, his crimson form a specter of death amid the fire.
Aruni's next shot pierced a shoulder, his voice steadying, a spark of courage breaking through. "They're running—I hit him!" The outcast staggered, dropping his spear, Vikrama's arrow finishing him—clean through the heart, a silent fall.
Vikrama fired again, his bow a relentless drumbeat—head, chest, leg—three more gone, blood painting the pass in streaks of red. "They're done," he said, his voice a quiet storm, stepping forward as the outcasts' line cracked, their resolve shattering under the onslaught.
The flames pulsed, a living beast of heat and light, the barricade's ruin a smoldering grave for the fallen. Dronaresh's men dwindled—ten left, then eight—their spears faltering, arrows slowing, their cries turning to panic. Devavrata raised his bow, wind gathering into a cyclone around him, the Ganga's pulse a thunderous roar in his chest, shaking the air itself. "This ends!" he shouted, his voice a divine proclamation, loosing a wind-shot that tore through the pass—a tornado of fury blasting four outcasts off the ridge, their bodies spinning skyward, crashing down in a heap of twisted limbs and blood.
Kshema vaulted over a burning log, his dagger sinking into an outcast's chest, blood spurting as he yanked it free, his bow firing at another—a clean kill, the arrow bursting through the back, pinning the body to a tree. "Ends? Not till they're dust!" He spun, his laughter a battle hymn, his form a blur of crimson and steel, the fire's glow crowning him a warrior king amidst the slaughter.
Dronaresh stood alone now, his band crumbling, his bow trembling as he nocked one last arrow, his voice a broken scream. "For my boys!" The shot flew, wild and fierce, aimed at Devavrata's heart. Wind roared, a wall of air rising—Devavrata caught it, hurling it back, the arrow sinking into an outcast's side, the last of his line falling with a gurgle.
The pass trembled, fire and blood a tapestry of war, Devavrata's wind a god's wrath, Kshema's fury a blade of vengeance, Aruni and Vikrama holding the tide. The battle teetered, Dronaresh's dream of revenge cracking under their might, the climax of their stand burning bright in the twilight's embrace.
....
Kshema battled at the front, a crimson phantom of vengeance, his leather blackened at the edges, blood painting his arms from countless kills. His bow rested across his back, his dagger gleaming in the firelight, a blade of wrath slicing through the outcasts like a reaper's harvest. "Dust!" he roared, his voice a thunderous chant, cutting an outcast's chest wide, blood spraying as the man fell with a gurgle. He spun, kicking another into the flames, the scream lost in the blaze. "That's all you'll be!"
Dronaresh stood alone on the ridge, his thin frame shaking, his bow drawn with a final, desperate arrow, his voice a cracked scream piercing the chaos. "For my boys! For my blood!" His band faltered, five left, then four, their cries fading to whimpers, their formation broken by Devavrata's wind and Kshema's steel. He loosed, the arrow blazing with fire, streaking toward Kshema's heart, a last breath of hate cutting through the dusk.
Devavrata saw it, wind surging at his command. "Kshema, get down!" he shouted, his voice booming, a gust roaring forth to shove the shot aside. The arrow swerved, burying itself in an outcast's shoulder, the man collapsing with a scream, but Dronaresh nocked again, his eyes wild, locked on the crimson warrior.
Kshema laughed, fierce and free, his dagger plunging into another outcast's gut, blood gushing as he ripped it free. "Missed me, rat!" He charged toward the barricade's heart, where flames burned tallest, a wall of fire still blocking their escape. "I'll end this!" he bellowed, vaulting over a smoldering log, his form a streak of crimson against the inferno.
Aruni fired from behind, his arrow sinking into an outcast's leg, his voice steady now, rising above the storm. "He's crazy! He's going through!" The man fell, clutching the wound, Vikrama's shot finishing him with a clean strike through the chest, a silent drop.
Vikrama loosed again, his bow a steady beat, another outcast down, blood pooling fast. "Crazy or not, he's opening it," he called, his voice calm but pressing. "Cover him!"
The flames surged, a living beast of heat and light, spitting embers like venom across the pass. Dronaresh's last men rallied, three ragged figures at the barricade's base, bows drawn, arrows blazing with fire. Kshema charged straight at them, dagger raised, his voice a war cry shaking the stone walls. "For you, river-son!" He ducked a shot, the arrow grazing his shoulder, blood welling red, but he pressed on, slamming into the first outcast, his dagger driving up under the ribs, blood spurting as the man screamed, stumbling back into the fire.
The second fired, the arrow piercing Kshema's side, tearing through leather and flesh, a hot bloom of red spreading fast. Kshema grunted, his grin holding fierce, twisting to slash the man's throat, blood arcing high, the body crumpling lifeless. The third loosed, a fatal shot blazing through the dusk, sinking deep into Kshema's chest, piercing his heart, blood gushing as he staggered, the dagger slipping from his grip.
"Kshema!" Devavrata roared, wind exploding around him, a tempest tearing through the pass, scattering the last arrows, blasting the barricade apart in a storm of shattered wood and fading flames. He surged forward, wind carrying him over the wreckage, reaching Kshema as he fell, knees hitting the dirt, blood pooling beneath him.
Kshema gripped Devavrata's arm, his breath ragged, his grin faint but real, eyes glinting with a warrior's fire even as they dulled. "Finish it," he whispered, blood bubbling at his lips, his hand falling limp, his body slumping into Devavrata's arms. The fire's glow caught his face, a final spark fading, a hunter's end, a brother's gift burned clean in sacrifice.
Dronaresh's voice broke, a scream of despair from the ridge. "No! You take everything!" His bow dropped, his last man fleeing into the dark, the pass emptying of his hate, leaving only silence and flame.
Devavrata laid Kshema down, his chest tight, grief crashing like a tide, the Ganga's pulse flaring hot, a vow igniting in his soul. "You gave us this," he said, his voice low, fierce, rising to his feet, bow in hand, wind swirling faint around him. He turned to the ridge, Dronaresh's shadow retreating, a broken echo fading into the night.
Aruni stumbled forward, tears streaking his face, his bow falling as he sank beside Kshema. "He's gone," he choked, his voice small, trembling. "He went through for us."
Vikrama knelt beside him, blood dripping from his shoulder, his hand resting on Kshema's still form, his tone heavy. "Went through and took them with him. Strongest way out."
The flames dwindled to embers, the pass a graveyard of blood and ash, the barricade's ruin smoldering soft in the twilight. Devavrata stood over Kshema, his crimson leather charred, his face peaceful in death, a grin etched forever, a warrior's mark, a sacrifice that broke the tide. "He didn't falter," he said, his voice steady, grief fueling resolve. "Not once."
Aruni wiped his eyes, his voice cracking but firm. "He was loud, always loud. Saved us with it."
Vikrama nodded, standing slow, his gaze on Kshema's body. "Loud and fierce. That's how he'll stay, right here." He tapped his chest, a quiet tribute, blood staining his fingers.
The night deepened, the air thick with smoke and sorrow, the pass silent but for the crackle of fading fire. Devavrata's hand tightened on his bow, Kshema's blood on his arms, a weight he'd carry forward. "He burned for us," he said, his voice low, a promise taking root. "Dronaresh pays, soon."
.....
Dawn crept over the forest, a pale light filtering through the canopy, casting soft shadows across the pass where embers still smoldered from the night's battle. The air hung heavy with the scent of ash and blood, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had raged hours before. Devavrata stood beside Kshema's body, the celestial bow resting against a tree, its runes dim in the morning glow. Kshema lay still, his crimson leather charred and torn, blood crusted dark across his chest, his face peaceful with that faint grin—a warrior's mark etched in death, a sacrifice that had shattered Dronaresh's trap.
Aruni knelt nearby, his short bow across his lap, his hands trembling as he gathered stones from the pass, piling them at Kshema's feet. "He shouldn't just lie here," he said, his voice thick, breaking on the words. "Not like this. He deserves more."
Vikrama stood over them, his shoulder bandaged, blood staining the cloth, his knife sheathed as he dragged a fallen log closer. "More than this," he said, his tone steady but heavy. "A warrior's rest. We'll build it right."
Devavrata nodded, the Ganga's pulse a slow, mournful thrum in his chest, grief a weight pressing hard. "He burned for us," he said, his voice low, firm. "We'll send him off with fire—his way." He turned to the forest, wind stirring faintly at his call, gathering dry branches and twigs scattered by the fight, piling them beside Kshema.
Aruni wiped his eyes, standing to help, his voice small but resolute. "His way. Loud and bright, like he always was." He stacked the wood, hands steadying as he worked, tears drying on his cheeks.
Vikrama hauled another log, his breath catching from the strain, his words quiet. "Loud and fierce. That's how he fought, how he fell. We'll make sure it's seen."
The pyre took shape, a bed of branches and logs rising around Kshema, the wood dry and brittle, ready to catch. Devavrata stepped back, his eyes tracing the lines of Kshema's form—the dagger still clutched in his stiff hand, the bow slung across his back, the crimson leather a testament to his fire. "He gave everything," he said, his voice steady, a vow threading through the sorrow. "This is for him."
Aruni placed the last stone at the pyre's edge, his voice cracking but strong. "He didn't even think about it. Just ran in, took them down. I'll never forget that."
Vikrama nodded, stepping to Kshema's side, gently prying the dagger from his grip, laying it across his chest. "Never hesitated," he said, his tone heavy with respect. "Not once. That's who he was—straight through, no looking back."
Devavrata knelt, lifting Kshema's bow, its string snapped in the fight, and placed it beside the dagger, his hands lingering on the worn wood. "Straight through," he echoed, his voice soft, grief cutting deep. "Saved us all. I won't let it fade."
The pyre stood ready, a warrior's throne of wood and stone, Kshema at its heart, surrounded by the remnants of his last stand. Devavrata rose, wind swirling faint around him, gathering the embers from the pass, coaxing them into a spark. "Light it," he said, his voice firm, carrying the weight of their loss. "Send him off."
Vikrama struck flint against his knife, sparks flying bright, catching the dry twigs at the pyre's base. Flames flickered, then surged, a hungry blaze climbing the wood, wrapping Kshema in a shroud of fire. The crackle rose, loud and fierce, echoing through the pass, a sound that matched his spirit—unyielding, bold, alive even in death.
Aruni stepped back, his eyes wide, reflecting the glow, his voice trembling but clear. "It's like him. Big, bright, burning everything in its way."
Vikrama watched the flames climb, his hand resting on his chest, blood staining his fingers. "Like him," he said, his tone steady, a quiet tribute. "This is right—how he'd want it."
Devavrata stood still, the Ganga's pulse syncing with the fire's rhythm, a slow, mournful beat that carried Kshema's memory. "He'd laugh," he said, a faint smile breaking through the grief, his voice low. "Tell us to stop moping, fight harder. That's what he'd say."
Aruni chuckled, a small, broken sound, wiping his nose. "He would. He'd call us soft, tell us to grab our bows and chase Dronaresh right now."
Vikrama's lips twitched, a rare hint of a smile. "Soft? He'd kick us for standing here too long. But he'd grin, seeing this fire."
The flames roared higher, a pillar of light piercing the dawn, smoke curling skyward like a warrior's soul ascending. Kshema's leather blackened, his form swallowed by the blaze, the dagger and bow glowing red before melting into the pyre. The heat pressed against them, a final embrace from the man who'd burned for their lives, his sacrifice a mark they'd carry forever.
Devavrata's hand tightened on his bow, Kshema's blood still crusted on his arms, a bond forged in flame. "He's not gone," he said, his voice steady, resolve hardening through the sorrow. "Not while we stand. Dronaresh ends for this—for him."
Aruni nodded, his tears dry now, his voice firm. "For him. He didn't die for nothing. We'll make it mean something."
Vikrama picked up a stone, placing it at the pyre's edge, his tone heavy but sure. "Mean something. His fight's ours now. We finish it."
The fire burned bright, the pass bathed in its glow, a sacred ground marked by Kshema's last stand. Devavrata watched the flames dance, grief a blade in his gut, but pride swelling beside it—pride for a brother who'd given all, who'd burned clean in the act. "He was the best of us," he said, his voice low, a truth settling deep. "Reckless, loud, fierce. The best."
Aruni sat by the pyre, his bow across his knees, his voice soft. "The best. I'll tell it—how he ran in, how he laughed. People should know."
Vikrama stood beside him, his gaze on the fire, his words quiet. "They'll know. We'll carry it—his name, his fire. That's our promise."
The dawn rose fully, the sun breaking over the trees, its light mingling with the pyre's glow, a twin radiance honoring Kshema's end. The flames began to fade, embers settling into ash, the pyre collapsing into a bed of charred wood and stone, Kshema's form gone, his spirit released. Devavrata stepped forward, wind stirring the ashes, lifting them skyward, a final farewell from the Ganga's breath.
"He's free," Devavrata said, his voice steady, a calm threading through the ache. "Free and watching. We don't let him down."
Aruni stood, his eyes red but clear, his voice strong. "Watching. He'd hate it if we messed up now."
Vikrama picked up his bow, slinging it over his shoulder, his tone dry but warm. "Mess up? He'd haunt us. Let's not give him the chance."
The pass grew quiet, the fire's crackle fading to a whisper, the forest still around them. Devavrata gripped his bow, Kshema's memory a fire in his chest, a strength to carry forward. The burial was done, a warrior's send-off, loud and bright as he'd lived. Dronaresh lingered out there, a debt unpaid, but Kshema's sacrifice had forged them anew—a bond unbreakable, a resolve unyielding, a brother's legacy burning eternal.