The morning sun cast its golden light over the ashram, piercing through the forest canopy, painting long, shifting shadows across the training ground. Here, where Dronaresh had fallen four years ago, the earth remained still—silent, yet bearing the weight of the past.
Devavrata stood at the edge of the clearing, the celestial bow resting lightly in his hands, its runes pulsing faintly against the worn leather of his tunic. His hair, once wild, now hung long, streaked with silver, tied back with a simple cord. The years had shaped him, tempering fire into steel, recklessness into quiet resolve. Around his arm, a strip of charred leather remained—a relic of Kshema's memory, a warmth that had not faded with time.
From the hut's threshold, Parashurama emerged, his broad frame cutting through the morning mist. The battle-worn axe rested on his shoulder, its edge gleaming as he halted before Devavrata. His eyes, ever sharp, carried something more now—not softness, but acknowledgment.
"Your training is done." His voice was a low rumble, final and unyielding. "You've taken all I can give—wind, will, steel. You are forged."
A moment of silence stretched between them, the weight of four years pressing within it. Then, Devavrata inclined his head. "Forged," he echoed, his voice steady, shaped by gratitude and understanding. "Thank you, Guru." He bowed, the gesture holding the deep respect of a disciple to his master.
Parashurama regarded him for a moment longer before nodding, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then, without another word, he turned, the axe swinging low as he strode back into the hut.
The clearing settled, wind stirring through the leaves—a quiet farewell.
Aruni approached, taller now, his frame lean and strong, his short bow slung across his back. He stopped beside Devavrata, glancing at the forest path ahead. "Hastinapura," he murmured, a slow smile forming. "After four years, it's time."
Vikrama leaned against a tree, his bow resting beside him, his scarred shoulder catching the light. His tone, as ever, was dry. "Took you long enough. The city will probably think you're a ghost come to haunt them."
Devavrata chuckled, the sound quiet, shaped by years of change. His gaze lingered on the ashram, taking in its stillness one last time. "A ghost?" He adjusted his quiver, the eagle-feathered arrows shifting. "Not yet. I still have too much left to do."
With that, he stepped onto the path, the wind carrying them forward.
The road to Hastinapura stretched wide before them, winding through hills and valleys, past rivers that glinted silver in the light. The crisp scent of moss and earth clung to the air, the rustle of leaves a steady rhythm against their journey.
They traveled for weeks, moving through autumn's embrace, the world shifting from dense forest to open plains. Along the way, Devavrata's thoughts drifted—Kshema's laughter in the firelight, Vikrama's voice after Dronaresh's fall, Parashurama's last command. Time had burned away the reckless edges of youth, leaving behind something stronger, something tempered.
One night, they camped by a murmuring stream, the fire casting warm flickers against their faces. Aruni sat cross-legged, sharpening his arrows, his voice thoughtful.
"What do you think it'll be like—going back?" His gaze lifted to Devavrata. "You left a boy. Now you're… this."
Devavrata stirred the fire with a branch, embers rising into the night. "Young?" he mused. "Feels like another life—leaving Shantanu, the palace, the Ganga's banks." He exhaled, watching the sparks drift upward. "I don't know what's waiting. The city changes, people change. But it's home."
Vikrama turned the spit, his expression unreadable. "Home changes too." His voice was even, measured. "You might not fit back the way you think."
Devavrata nodded slightly, gaze tracing the stars. "It doesn't need to fit," he said, quiet but certain. "I'll make it mine again—whatever I find."
As the forest gave way to the heartland of the Kuru kingdom, the landscape softened into rolling fields and distant villages. Farmers paused in their work to watch them pass, children darting alongside, whispering stories of a warrior with a glowing bow.
The legend of Devavrata had already begun to take root.
By the time Hastinapura's walls loomed on the horizon—tall, weathered stone crowned in banners of gold and crimson—the weight of expectation pressed against him. The great gates stood open, trumpets blaring as they approached. A crowd had gathered, swelling at the threshold—soldiers in polished armor, nobles in embroidered silk, merchants and common folk pressing close, their voices rising in a tide of welcome.
Devavrata straightened, his travel-worn tunic holding quiet dignity, the celestial bow at his back a silent testament to his journey.
A captain stepped forward, his voice carrying over the din. "Devavrata, son of Shantanu! Hastinapura greets its prince—returned from the wilds, forged in fire and steel!"
The roar of the crowd surged around them, hands clapping, cheers rolling against the city walls.
Aruni grinned, nudging Devavrata lightly. "Told you—you're halfway to being a legend already."
Vikrama smirked faintly. "They'll quiet down when they realize you still need to eat and sleep like the rest of us."
Devavrata raised a hand, and slowly, the voices ebbed. When he spoke, his tone was deep, steady, carrying the weight of years.
"I am no legend," he said, his voice cutting through the air. "I am a son returning home—to serve, to stand beside you. Hastinapura's strength is not mine alone. It belongs to us all."
For a heartbeat, silence held. Then the cheers rose again, louder than before, petals tumbling from balconies, carried on the wind like whispers of fate.
Beyond the crowd, the palace gates stood open. And within them, Shantanu waited.
His father was older now, silver streaking his once-dark hair, the lines of rule etched deeper into his face. He wore a crimson robe edged in gold, the king's mantle resting heavy on his shoulders. Yet his eyes—proud, relieved—were unchanged.
Shantanu stepped forward, his voice strong despite the years. "My son." The words rang clear, reaching Devavrata through the noise. "You have returned—not as a boy, but as a man. Stronger than I had hoped."
Devavrata met his gaze, something warm breaking through the quiet control he had carried. His voice, though softer, held no less weight. "Father. I have missed this—missed you."
He bowed his head—not as a warrior, nor as a prince, but as a son.
Shantanu's hand clasped his arm, firm, steady, pulling him forward. "Come," he said, turning toward the palace. "The city is waiting."
As they passed through the gates, the crowd parted like a river, their voices rising in celebration. The palace loomed ahead, its golden spires catching the light, banners rippling in the wind. The symbol of the Kuru dynasty—a lion crowned in flame—waved high above them.
The gates shut behind them, sealing the past from the future.
And as Devavrata stepped onto the marble floors of Hastinapura once more, the Ganga's pulse thrummed steady in his chest, a quiet river finding its course again.
He had returned. And the road ahead was only beginning.