The disciples dragged Aryan back from the forest before sunrise, his arms limp, mud caked on his skin. His breath rattled.
"Two nights outside and he looks half-dead."
"Forest spat him back."
"Not even beasts want him."
Their laughter stung, but Aryan said nothing. His palm burned faintly—the mark from the flame. He kept it hidden beneath his sleeve, though the older boys jabbed at his ribs.
Mahajan's gaze brushed him only once. Calm, unreadable. As if he already knew.
Rumors in the Hall
By midday, gossip spread like sparks on dry grass.
"Weak."
"Cursed."
"Dangerous."
Aryan sat at the edge of the dining hall, rice untouched. Each word pressed heavier against his chest until he wondered if silence itself might crush him.
The Debate of Worth
Later, the teachers gathered in the shaded veranda. Aryan sat outside in the courtyard, pretending to study a cracked pillar, but every word reached him.
"He cannot keep stumbling like this," one said. "Either he proves himself, or he leaves."
"He is not useless," another argued. "They call him Scroll Brain for a reason. His study is unmatched."
"But in combat he falters."
"Combat alone? That is like asking an elephant to climb a tree, or a horse to swim a river. Not all strength is the same."
Murmurs swelled until one of the elder teachers spoke.
"Then let the measure be wide. Not one path, but many. Written. Strategy. Combat. Spirit. Philosophy. Craft. Real trials, not parchment."
A younger teacher frowned. "But if only he faces them, whispers of favoritism will grow. Bias. Favor."
"Then let others walk beside him," came the reply. "Disciples from the gurukul. Not chosen—volunteers. If Aryan is measured, so too will they be."
The idea caught fire.
"In the market, he will not haggle alone."
"In the forest, he will not be the only one hungry."
"In combat, he will stand where others stand as well."
What began as Aryan's trial became an open crucible. Some teachers smiled—fairness, at last. Others bristled—too much effort for one boy.
Finally, Mahajan spoke, his tone mild but final:
"Then it is decided. Let the volunteers come. The world itself will judge them."
And somewhere behind his calm eyes, Mahajan carried a thought none of them shared: the true trials would not be written, nor fought, nor crafted. They would be silent, unseen, tests of heart.
The Library
That evening, Aryan was ordered to sweep the gurukul library. Dust clung to the air like ash. Palm-leaf scrolls lined the shelves like brittle bones.
One slipped loose, landing open. Sanskrit lines glowed faintly, as if lit from within. Aryan froze. His eyes locked. The words seared behind his lids, burning deeper than sight. His knees buckled.
Whispers filled his head. Not men's voices—something older. His lips moved without his will, murmuring syllables that scraped his throat raw.
No one came—except Mahajan. From the shadows, he watched, silent, as Aryan shook and collapsed.
The Dream
That night Aryan dreamt of glowing strings binding him to the earth. Not ropes—lines of the cosmos itself, thrumming like a thousand veenas. He thrashed, chest pounding, until he could not tell if he was resisting or dissolving into them.
He woke drenched in sweat. The mark on his palm pulsed like a second heartbeat.
The Doubt
By the next day, the whispers sharpened.
"His eyes glowed."
"He mutters in strange voices."
"He'll bring ruin."
Aryan kept silent, though each word lodged like a stone in his ribs. Am I cursed? Or chosen?
The Summon
At dusk, Mahajan called him alone to the veranda. For a moment, the elder said nothing, studying him as if measuring threads no one else could see.
Finally, Mahajan spoke:
"From tomorrow, your training changes."
No explanation. No comfort. Just a door, half-open.
Aryan bowed, heart pounding. He did not know that tomorrow would not simply be a new lesson—it would be the beginning of the trials, both seen and unseen.