Arya lay in his bed, his skin raw and blistered where Rankriti's burning hand had gripped him. The pain was sharp, but not as sharp as the fear that had settled inside him. He stared at the stone ceiling above, unmoving. Even breathing hurt. His throat stung with every swallow, and his chest ached from the weight of his thoughts.
He had seen strength before—seen Ashvapati fight like a god during the war, the way he brought down the mighty Kshoniraajas one by one, like they were no more than puppets made of dust. That was strength Arya could understand. But this? Rankriti's power was different. Unseen. Not just in her hands that could burn him without flame, but in the quiet finality of her words. In how the very air had changed when she stepped forward.
He replayed the moment again and again: the way she had closed the distance in a blink, the look in her eyes, the feeling of being lifted off the ground like he weighed nothing. His skin still remembered the heat of her fingers.
If this is what she does when I ask a question, he thought, what will she do if I refuse?
Arya turned on his side, gritting his teeth against the pain. He wanted to live. He wanted to breathe without fear. He had fought wars, defied warlords—yet now, lying here, he felt like a prisoner. Not behind bars, but caught in something much worse: power without morality.
He thought of the people waiting back home. The fighters who had bled for him. The twins. They believed in him. He couldn't become someone else's tool.
But saying no? That might mean death. Not just for him.
Elsewhere, far from the cold quiet of Arya's room, preparations were being made. Ashvapati, Parashar, Kritipal, Dhanudanda, and Savignya had gathered and begun their journey towards the capital.
The war was over, but the wounds it left behind were not. Cities still struggled to return to life. Prithvi and Bhuva Mandala remained partially suspended—markets were slow, offices unmanned, power structures uncertain. In Lohitpuri, things had barely begun moving again. Without Arya, without leadership, it was drifting.
Ashvapati knew it. And so did the others. They had discussed it in low voices. Rankriti might not let Arya go. She would see what they saw—potential. Fire. Will. Arya was young, malleable. Under her guidance, or control, he could become something else. Something dangerous.
And if that happened, who would lead the cities? Who would rebuild what had been broken?
They didn't speak openly of it, but each one carried the weight of that question as they moved.
Savignya had left ahead of the others. Her wounds had healed quickly. She had insisted on returning to her city—there were things that needed her attention, matters only she could settle. But she had promised to meet them in Suryagadh.
Rudra, meanwhile, was still recovering. His body was marked with bruises and deep cuts, but his spirit had dimmed in a way that worried Raghav. Rudra no longer spoke much. He sat for hours staring out at the fields beyond the windows, his jaw clenched. He didn't talk about Arya. He didn't talk about the war. But there was something brewing in him.
Raghav stayed close. The two didn't speak much, but sometimes that was enough.
A week passed. Slowly, the dust of war began to settle. Markets reopened, people returned to their homes. Priests lit lamps in long-abandoned temples. Blacksmiths cleaned their forges.
And in that slow, cautious return to normal, the Warlords gathered. Sixty men in all, armed and solemn, began their journey towards Suryagadh.
Savignya led the convoy, flanked by her personal guards. Her face was calm, but her eyes were alert, always watching. Behind her rode Ashvapati—silent as ever, the mountain man with eyes like winter. Beside him, Parashar whispered to Dhanudanda about arrangements and protocols, while Kritipal kept scanning the horizon.
The road was quiet. No one dared disturb a convoy like this.
The walls of Suryagadh rose before them.
The capital.
The seat of the Ashtaraj. The place where decisions shaped the fate of Mandalas.
Ashvapati slowed his horse as they reached the gates. He looked up at the high stone towers, the crimson banners flapping lightly in the evening breeze. The city had changed little.
"Let's move," Savignya said quietly, and the convoy pushed forward.
Back in the palace, Arya had barely left his room. He had eaten little. The guards didn't speak to him. No one did. Even Trishan hadn't returned after that day.
He sat on the edge of the bed now, staring at his burnt palm. The skin had started to peel.
He had three days. Rankriti had said so.
Three days to choose his fate. Three days were over now.
He hadn't slept much. He didn't know what to do. He knew what was right, but what was right didn't always lead to survival. He wanted to believe there was still a way through—some middle path. But the more he thought about it, the more it felt like there were only two ends to this story.
Obedience. Or ash.
He closed his eyes, his mind reaching for anything that could guide him.
And somewhere in the distance, hooves echoed against the stone roads of Suryagadh.
The others had arrived.