Dr. Rao paused, his face an enigma of pride and sorrow, knowing the world was hanging on the movement of a single, hidden knife two millennia ago.
"Gauri did not hesitate," the archaeologist narrated, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret with the millions watching. "She understood that hesitation was death, and a life spent in hiding was no preparation for a moment of such ultimate confrontation."
...
Gauri's cold, fierce eyes drilled into Zarakan's face. The commander, stunned and momentarily off-balance, struggled to reconcile the peasant woman with the raw, terrifying strength that held his knife arm immobile.
"You do not need to know who I am," Gauri replied, her voice low, steady, and utterly devoid of fear. It cut through the air, carrying authority that belied her peasant attire. "Take your men out from this village. Do not create any further problems here, or there will be consequences."
Zarakan, a veteran fighter who had survived countless skirmishes, composed his emotions with brutal speed. He immediately tried to draw his sword with his other free hand, attempting to twist his body to break her grip.
But the moment he tried to shift his weight, the ground rushed up to meet him.
Instantly, he fell. He realized, with mounting panic, that Gauri had achieved a perfect, experienced martial maneuver. She had used his own momentum against him, twisting his wrist to lock both his hands behind his back while using her powerful knee to leverage her grip into his spine, immobilizing him completely.
Zarakan's fear was no longer a flutter of premonition; it was a cold, spreading dread in his heart. This woman was not just a hunter; she was trained in the deadly arts of the court.
After a few seconds of fruitless, desperate struggling, realizing he couldn't move, he bent his neck to the side, his tone shifting from aggression to cunning threat.
"Woman, do not do any foolish things," he hissed. "Release me, and I will forget this humiliation. You and your village will be spared."
"Can't you listen properly?" Gauri returned, pressing down slightly harder, earning a muffled grunt of pain from the commander. "I told you to leave. Leave now, or blood will flow here—and it will be the blood of your King's commander."
Zarakan managed a strained, shallow laugh. "Oh? A rare woman warrior. Impressive. Listen, you have a choice. You can have the chance to follow our great King Azesan. I can vouch for you and our King can accept you by showing your loyalty and your skills." He paused, forcing a leering smile onto his face. "If not, worry not. You can be my wife also. I respect strong women like you. It's a great opportunity, think about it."
The villagers, who had been watching the incredible martial feat with stunned silence, began to chatter nervously. This was an astonishing offer. How rare is this opportunity? If Gauri accepted, the entire village would be graced by the benevolence of a powerful commander.
Prakash, the Village Head, interrupted immediately, his voice desperate with pragmatic hope. "Gauri, do not miss this! Think of the benefits! You can have a luxurious life, protection, and it will be good for our village also!"
Gauri felt a sickness rise in her throat. To be treated like an object, an asset to be bartered, to have to choose between selling her soul or destroying the only peace her son had ever known—it was an unpleasant, suffocating feeling. It was a faint, agonizing memory of her past, of court demands and political compromises.
She violently shook her head. Her fury and rejection were absolute.
"I do not want to go anywhere!" she declared loudly and fiercely, ensuring every villager could hear the finality of her words. "These men need to leave from here. Now!"
The villagers burst into hushed, anxious discussions.
How unpredictable this girl is!
Is she mad?
Does she not understand the stakes?
Prakash, seeing the blazing fury in Gauri's glare, swallowed his next plea and shut his mouth, sighing in defeated resignation.
Only Acharya Deva, the old priest, managed to stand up, his injured body trembling. He supported her with quiet strength. "Good, Gauri, good! Do not listen to them. They are like snakes, only interested in what they can devour." The other priests echoed his support.
Rudraksha, eyes wide, was still frozen in his spot, watching his mother, his silent reverence growing with every moment.
Zarakan realized that sweet talk and threats of political advantage were useless against this woman's singular moral code. He had to change tactics. His expression contorted, and he took a massive, sudden gulp of air, shouting at the top of his lungs in his native tongue:
"Zaraki! Altesa! Tūm tēgē!" (Guard! Danger! Advance!)
Gauri instantly recognized the sudden, tactical shift. She tried to clamp her hand over his mouth, but Zarakan's shout, a raw burst of sound in his foreign dialect, was too quick. It was too late.
Within seconds, the remaining Saka riders, who had been systematically scouring the village, raced back toward the temple. They saw their leader twisted on the ground, held captive by a single woman, and the temple steps encircled by tense, agitated villagers.
The Saka men instantly advanced, pushing past the hesitant villagers. Zarakan, even while pinned, shouted rapid, guttural commands in the same foreign language, his voice laced with urgency.
The Saka men quickly understood. They drew their weapons—spears and swords—and pointed them directly at the villagers, creating a tight circle. Any movement now would injure or kill the farmers.
The villagers were instantly held hostage. The language barrier had created Gauri's moment of helplessness. Zarakan and his men had learned to use the local dialect, Sanskrit, for communication with the population. However, their internal command language was different, a rapid, clipped dialect of Central Asia that Gauri, having only interacted with locals, did not understand.
Gauri, though fiercely defiant, did not cower. She spotted the knife that Zarakan had dropped earlier lying near her on the ground. Her foot nudged it, her hand snatched it up, and she instantly pressed the sharp, cold steel to Zarakan's exposed neck.
"Listen, you all!" she threatened loudly, her voice ringing with deadly authority. "If you do not want your leader to die, then lower your weapons and get far away! If he dies, your lives will also be implicated with your families, and your King will not spare you!"
Zarakan's men instantly paused, their weapons hovering. Their leader's life was more valuable than a few farmers. Zarakan struggled to shout, but the cold blade against his throat silenced him.
The villagers, sensing a momentary shift in power, rallied their courage.
"Don't come here!"
"We are not weak!"
"You people will sure regret this" they yelled, gaining confidence.
The confrontation had devolved into a stalemate. Both parties were locked in a defensive position, unable to attack without massive loss. This tense standoff continued for several agonizing minutes. But then, something entirely unexpected happened—something that Gauri, focused entirely on the formidable threat before her, could never have imagined.
.....
Eleanor Vance quickly absorbed the strategic details, her pen scribbling furiously.
"Dr. Rao," she asked, "the difference between the spoken Sanskrit and the commander's internal language—that's significant, isn't it? It proves unequivocally that they were outsiders, a foreign invading force."
Dr. Rao nodded, his expression serious. "Absolutely. The presence of that different dialect is a linguistic marker. You are correct that at that time, Sanskrit was the native and scholarly language of the subcontinent. Many universities around the world study it, even today."
He paused. "However, the Sanskrit of that era was vastly different from what is commonly taught today. It was an ancient form, with harder phrases, much more complex grammar, and words that have either shifted in meaning or fallen out of use. It is a language of scholars and high poetry, but in its ancient, unsimplified form, it is extremely rare to decipher."
Eleanor's curiosity, the intellectual side of her, took over. "But Dr. Rao, you mentioned the complexity. Aren't there also modern AI tools—like the ones we use for instantaneous translation, like the ones built by Chat GTT, Grook or Perplex AI—that can easily translate these ancient scripts? Could that not help people understand the scale of your findings?"
Dr. Rao let out a soft, genuine laugh that echoed in the silent studio. It was a comforting sound in the midst of the tension.
"Ah, Ms. Vance, you raise an excellent, modern point. One of the main reasons for the difficulty in deciphering these scriptures, and why they were overlooked for so long, is precisely this problem. Only a very few in the world can truly decipher this ancient Sanskrit. I can proudly say that after decades of study, I am one of the best."
He continued, his voice regaining its authority. "I have, of course, tried using modern AI tools. Even advanced systems can't fully achieve what is needed. The ancient language is rich in context, layered meaning, and subtle cultural nuances that, when translated through a program, can lead to fundamental errors. Even a small mistake in translation can create a huge problem or misunderstanding about the Samrat's intentions or the historical events he described."
Eleanor nodded, slightly surprised by his bold claim, which simultaneously intrigued her and silenced the hushed discussions among her technical crew about AI's capabilities. She understood the nuance.
"We greatly appreciate and understand that, Dr. Rao," she said, looking back at the map and the scene of violence. "We know AI can make minor mistakes, and when dealing with history, those mistakes matter. So, the stalemate continues, Gauri is holding the commander hostage, but the villagers are still at sword point. What was this unexpectancy that Gauri couldn't imagine?"
Dr. Rao's face darkened, the brief moment of academic pride dissolving into renewed sorrow.
"It was not a threat from the enemy, Ms. Vance. It was the devastating weakness of the very people she was trying to save. It was the sudden, brutal, and cowardly betrayal of fear and resentment."
.....
The villagers, now energized by Gauri's show of force, were slowly composing their emotions, shifting from fear to defiant hope. But where there is great risk, there are always a few who are utter cowards, willing to commit any treachery for their own immediate survival or, worse, for vengeance.
Three young men, known for their weakness and resentment, separated themselves slowly from the crowd. These were the very individuals Gauri had beaten in the past when they had tried to court her through force and dishonor. The old humiliation, the desire for revenge, and the overwhelming fear of the Saka blades combined to create a monstrous decision.
They moved with sneaky, coordinated silence toward Rudraksha's position.
Rudraksha, still frozen in horror, watching his mother's confrontation, was completely unaware of the threat behind him. The young men lunged. They grabbed his hands and legs, covering his mouth to silence his cries. Rudraksha struggled violently against the unexpected betrayal, but they were older, stronger, and prepared.
The three men sneaked forward, bypassing the main line of the tense villagers. They approached two of Zarakan's men who were holding their spears ready, visibly hesitating to attack Gauri.
With a final, desperate heave, the three young men threw Rudraksha directly into the Saka lines.
Simultaneously, one of the traitors shouted loudly, ensuring both Gauri and the Saka commander heard his cowardly pronouncement: "My Lord! Take this boy! He is the son of that witch! He is precious to her!"
Rudraksha hit the dusty ground, feeling the jarring pain and the crushing reality of the betrayal. He scrambled immediately, trying to run to his mother, but it was too late. The two Saka riders quickly caught him, pinning his small, struggling body.
The surrounding villagers watched in horrified silence at the sheer foolishness and despicable nature of the three young men.
Gauri saw the entire exchange. It was like a cold stone had fallen directly onto her heart. The sudden, shocking capture of her son shattered the steel wall of her composure.
Her gaze, which had been fixed on the knife blade, flew to Rudraksha, now a desperate prisoner in the hands of the enemy. Her expression changed utterly—the cold, martial fury replaced by a mother's instantaneous, overwhelming terror and grief.
Zarakan, still pinned on the ground, had heard the shouted reveal. He saw the shift in Gauri's eyes, saw the fear where there had only been granite resolve.
A triumphant, vicious smile spread across his face.
The pressure of the knife against his neck loosened. The general knew he had won. He didn't need to fight; he had her heart hostage. He began to speak, his voice now calm and utterly assured.
"Well, well," Zarakan drawled, his voice regaining its contemptuous authority. "It seems your little star has fallen into my hands."