Dark, heavy clouds choke the sky, extinguishing the last remnants of the daylight. A slight chill spread through the air, and the fading sun cast long, cascading shadows that stretched across the muddy path. The forest ahead is thick, its air damp and swollen, a telltale sign of a downpour.
Suddenly, the ground trembles like an earthquake, sending the small critters into a frenzy to escape. The clopping echoes of hooves, the frantic shouts of people, the rattling and creaking of chariots and carriages, disrupt the peace of the forest.
A procession of horses, chariots, and carriages presses forward through the tangled, muddy forest; its pace rhythmic and well-maintained.
A majestic chariot pulled by four huge white warhorses rides at the centre of a large battle formation. The chariot forged from sal and teal wood and embossed with ornate gold exudes a majestic and commanding aura. Massive silk banners engraved with royal sigils, carved from golden threads, fluttered in the wind. Twenty horsemen, each on a huge warhorse with black coats and flowing obsidian manes, flanked both sides of the royal chariot.
Each warrior carries himself with the poise and dignity of a veteran, forged in battle. The jaws of the warrior are clenched shut, their eyes resolute, and the burnished metal of their armour glints in the fading light of dusk. A belt on their waist holds a sword, and a massive spear hangs on their back. A few warriors carry massive war bows instead of spears, with quivers tied to their backs.
Aboard the majestic chariot stands a dignified young man, his presence commanding, his gait tall and straight, like an arrow, shaped by years of disciplined training and the innate bearings of royal blood.
The prince's fair face harbours the sharp harmony of youth and royal prestige. His forehead is broad and well-defined. Strong sword-like brows frame his dark, deep black eyes. He has a firm jawline and a straight, even-proportioned nose.
His thick, dark, wavy hair falls loosely to his shoulders. He wears a flowing white sleeveless tunic with golden wreath-like accents. Over the top, he dons crisp metallic armour polished with gold dust on his broad, well-chiselled chest. The lower part of his outfit is a white, flowing dhoti, along with silver armour plating that features three long pteruges strips of brown leather, decorated with three gold disks.
A silver shoulder pauldron in the shape of a sculpted eagle adorns his left shoulder, hiding the blue moon tattoo underneath it. His large and steady arms are equipped with two leather brown vambraces with metallic plating covering both his forearms, and he wears a silver signet ring with moon insignia on his right index finger. A golden piece of headwear rests on his brow, and a pair of golden eight-pointed star earrings dangle from his ears. From his neck hung a silver necklace with a moon-shaped ornament inlaid with a bright blue gemstone.
The prince holds an enormous bow in his calloused hands, his expression tense. A silver, curved sword with a bright green gemstone set into its pommel hangs on the belt around the prince's waist. Half a step behind him stood an old figure- the royal teacher and a wise sage.
Closely behind the prince's royal chariot is a group of carriages. Aboard these carriages is a small but formidable cadre of arcane scholars, the disciples of the old sage. Each of them holds a Shastra book, a book holding arcane knowledge and esoteric tantras.
Unlike the warriors with fierce auras, these scholars have a calm demeanour. Their eyes are sharp and calculating, constantly surveying their surroundings with precise and methodical techniques.
Unlike the warrior's steel armour, the scholars wear layered robes of deep blue, mint, and earthy brown. The colour palette of their robes is not just for show, but holds a deep meaning. It reflects their mastery of natural elements — the sky, the forest, and the earth. The robes are enchanted with various protections, stitched with intricate threads like an array. A few outstanding ones bear faint glowing marks along their foreheads, forearms, collarbones, and wrists.
Each scholar carries bamboo scroll tubes, bone styluses, chalk ground from precious crystals, and small pouches with powdered metals and enchanted ritual ashes.
The scholars sat cross-legged in the carriage, their eyes closed and their breathing stable, maintaining a state of meditation. Trailing behind the scholars are five carriages full of supplies, followed by another carriage with servants and thirty horsemen acting as the rearguard.
"Acharya, this expedition was successful thanks to your guidance." The young prince turns to the old sage beside him and bows his head in respect.
"With an elite team of a hundred soldiers, we could repel a massive army of Danavas. If those malevolent demons invaded nearby villages, then the losses to the common populace would be catastrophic."
The young prince gazes at the old man with awe and respect.
Acharya Sukrit is a wise sage, a scholar with immense knowledge of heavenly and earthly affairs. The old sage has lived for five hundred years, teaching five generations of the royal family of the Avanti Kingdom. He has long since embarked on the path of seeking Moksha, free from worldly affairs. He would occasionally step out of his reclusion to teach a new generation of the royal family, bound by a promise he made to the ancestor of the royal family.
Sage Sukrit's face bears the unmistakable mark of decades spent in the mortal world, yet untouched by its superficiality. His skin is wrinkled, weathered by the elements. Deep lines etch his face, carved by time to mark his wisdom.
His deep blue eyes hold an unnatural intensity, deep and bright; their gaze seems to pierce the heavens, reflecting unspoken truths of the cosmos. Just a look from those eyes could pierce all facades and peer directly into the soul.
A long, ash-streaked beard frames his gaunt face with strands of silver and white tangled together. Despite his old age, his sharp features reflect his austerity and devotion. There is no frailty in his expression- only an unyielding calm that seems to breeze through all storms.
The old sage nods his head in acknowledgement. His fingers gently weave through the beads of the Rudraksha mala in his right hand.
Suddenly, a large, galloping black horse draws the prince's attention.
"The scouts have returned from their patrol," the prince murmurs.
The scout reports their discovery to the deputy commander. Beside him, the current acting commander, the deputy commander, is the true head of this elite unit and the most central figure in this small cavalry.
The deputy commander is a tall, middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a solid frame. He has a stern face, weathered by wind and war throughout his years on the battlefield—deep lines run from the corners of his eyes and mouth, a symbol of his weary age. His beard is thick, streaked with grey tufts of hair.
One of his cheeks bears a long, faded scar, pale against his slightly dark skin. This mark is a trophy of war and a symbol of his loyalty and self-sacrifice.
Years ago, in his youth, the commander shielded his father, the king, from a ruthless enemy attack. The attack was powerful and heavy; it shattered his blade and cut deep into his face. However, this slight delay bought the king precious time to escape and counterattack.
After sorting the scout's report, the deputy commander heads towards the prince's chariot.
"Your Majesty, the Crown Prince!" The deputy commander performs a salute while riding his horse.
"Senapati Jaivardhan!" The prince returns the salute and invites him into the chariot.
The old commander leaps from his horse and boards the chariot in one smooth motion.
"I pay my respects to the royal mentor, Acharya Sukrit." Commander Jaivardhan turns to the old sage and bows respectfully. The old sage smiles politely and nods.
"Prince, our scouts have discovered a large clearing ahead. It's a perfect spot to camp and rest overnight. The long expedition and battle have drained the soldiers. We seek your permission to prepare the camp." The commander informs.
"Our brave soldiers are exhausted from the expedition. A proper rest and a sumptuous feast should restore their spirits and bodies. Prepare to camp and rest for the night." The prince grants his permission.
A few minutes later, the group arrived at the spot the scouts mentioned.
"The first unit will survey the area and set up the camp. The second unit will head into the forest and hunt suitable prey for food. And the third unit will set up a ward and help the scholars build a defensive mandala." Jaivardhan orders, assigning tasks to various units.
The scholars move meticulously, surveying the surrounding terrain: soil density, root patterns, slope, wind direction, and prana flow. They mutter silent mantras under their breath, voices overlapping in a low, rhythmic flow while maintaining mental and spiritual balance and coordination.
The group will halt occasionally, and a scholar will drop to his knee, dragging the stylus through mud and stone. Another scholar will spill a mix of the shimmering metallic powder and enchanted ashes into the grooves carved by the stylus. Complex symbols bloom across the ground — circles with triangles, intersecting spirals, ancient runes and sigils unite into a complex formation.
The scholars spent half an hour constructing the formation. Just as they fill the last groove, a faint humming sound echoes through the forest. A swirl of prana rises from the centre and flows through the entire formation, lighting up various symbols and sigils. The complex sigils weave together, and a massive dome of faint green light shrouds the camp. Various sigils flickered across the barrier's surface, drifting in and out.
[Paravāraṇa Mandala]
The scholars heave a sigh of relief at the successful construction of the repelling ward. Sweat beads on their temples; the mental exertion has slightly strained them.
"Magnificent work!" The prince nods with satisfaction.
"Acharya, the skills of these scholars are a testament to your meticulous teaching." He praises.
"They still have a lot to learn. A scholar's thirst for knowledge should be endless; they must seek wisdom sharp enough to carve the very world itself." The old sage's deep blue eyes flicker with wisdom.
* * *
The sun sets, and darkness settles gently over the wilderness, wrapping the clear blue sky in a blanket of gleaming stars.
As the night approaches, excited laughter and joyful banter echo through the silent forest. A dazzling campfire burns at the heart of the camp, low and steady. Its orange flames crackle softly, reflecting the faces of soldiers gathered around. Several small tents are set up in a perimeter, encircling the main camp in the middle.
The prince sits near the fire, his posture relaxed and his expression serene. Firelight danced across his face, highlighting his youthful face. He silently listens to the soldier's banter, quietly enjoying the companionship of his men. True loyalty and bonds are forged on the battlefield, not within the confines of the court.
Around him, his warriors rested in scattered circles. Some sit cross-legged, carefully maintaining their weapons. Others lean back against rocks or tree trunks, their armour loosened, their bodies relaxed. A few share low, murmured conversations- short, tired sentences punctuated by brief laughter that fades quickly.
The prince shakes his head with a smile. These soldiers are being too mindful of his presence.
The deputy commander sits slightly apart, keeping a close eye on everything. His eyes scan the area beyond the camp out of habit, even at rest. Although his body is relaxed, his vigilance is still high.
The soldiers cheered with joy as the scent of roasted meat filled the camp. The taste of grain and simple rations was growing stale on their taste buds. A kettle simmers quietly, steam rising like breath, and the aroma of stew fills the chilly night air.
The soldiers enjoyed their meal- a piece of roasted venison and wild pork with a bowl of stewed vegetables. The scholars sit in a corner, eating and silently discussing insights into the obscure, mystic, arcane.
Beyond the camp, the forest is alive: distinct insects chatter, birds chirp, leaves rustle, and a few animals howl and roar in the distance. The soldiers threw a few dried logs onto the campfire, keeping it alive and crackling.
The sage Sukrit sits cross-legged a few meters away from the rest of the group. The Rudraksha bead mala in his hand trembles as the beads slide between his thumb and middle finger. His lips vibrate from the hushed whispers of mantras.
The prince respectfully approaches the sage with a bowl of vegetable stew in his hands. As an old sage, Acharya Sukrit has long since abstained from mortal food, surviving solely on morning dew and the vast prana of nature. However, as the crown prince, it's his duty to offer his respect and hospitality to the royal mentor as a show of intent.
He gently places the bowl of vegetable stew near Sage Sukrit, too afraid of disturbing his meditation.
Just as the prince was about to retreat, the old Sage's body halted abruptly, as if seized by an unseen hand. His body stiffens, and the grip on the Rudraksha bead mala tightens, his knuckles turning white with urgency.
His tightly closed eyes are shut open, and a faint, otherworldly, enchanting blue light flickers in his eyes. He lifts his cloudy eyes, and his gaze pierces through the thick mist of the forest.
"The alignment of stars warns of a calamity; demonic strength is brewing in the air, ready to drown the world in its sinister hue."
The old sage's gaze lifted, piercing through the thick, looming clouds on the horizon. A malevolent burst of energy rises on a distant cliff, touching the skies. The old man's eyes reflect nothing of the forest but the distant, dreadful glow of a looming calamity.
A gust of wild wind blows through the forest, enveloping the group in a sudden chill. Goosebumps crawl across their skin; the dense prana of the surroundings stirs. The campfire flickers unnaturally; its flames bend sideways as if pulled by an unseen force. The forest sounds die all at once, engulfing everything in a hushed silence.
The deputy commander Jaivardhan, turns, eyes narrowed, a faint trace of prana flickers within them.
"That's…"
A shudder passes through him, shaking him to the bone. Crack… Thunder cracks overhead, briefly revealing the silhouettes of people on a distant hill as lightning flashes.
A group of enemies clad in black robes appears in his vision. Amidst the shadowy group stands a tall figure with hands tightly clenched around his bow.
"Dear prince, the enemy is here", Jaivardhan rasps, voice low but cutting through the silence like a thunderbolt.
"To arms!" the prince roars, his voice cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. The camp explodes into motion.
Warriors surge to their feet, quickly donning their armour and drawing their weapons in practised motion. The prince also snatches up his bow and quiver.
Suddenly, a surge of prana explodes violently near the camp. The barrier shudders as the enemy's assault slams into it.
The scholars were the last to react, ushered into action by the violent trembling of the barriers.
"Reinforce the barrier; don't let the enemy breach it." Their leader, a middle-aged scholar in deep blue robes, commands.
The scholars hurriedly sprang into action, anchoring themselves at the key nodes of the barrier. With trembling hands, they feed prana into the formation. Runes and sigils hover in the air, and pulses of prana spread throughout the barrier.
The enemy assault had just started, and yet the barrier was already trembling from the pressure. The scholar's quick action has stabilised its state, but the pressure remains.
Another violent burst of prana gathers in the distance. This time, its movements are visible. A massive energy projectile- a dark violet prana arrow tears through the forest, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
It crashes against the barrier with a deafening boom. Light explodes outward- sinister, violent, and earth-shattering. Cracks spread across the barrier, sigils and runes flaring white hot, cracking and fracturing like fragile glass. The ground heaves as shockwaves ripple outward, uprooting trees and hurling debris into the air.
A wave of arrows follows the powerful prana attack, striking the barrier in rhythmic pulses, each impact sending ripples across its surface.
Scholars feel the strain; a few collapse to their knees, blood trickling from their noses. The backlash soon surges through the formation as another ring of sigils destabilises, shattering into countless light fragments. The voices of scholars overlap in frantic cadence, their lips quivering with mantras in desperation.
Cracks appeared across the barrier, thin, luminous fractures spreading across the barrier's surface like spiderwebs.
"Reinforce the eastern node!" The cries of the middle-aged scholar echo. The scholars pour everything they have into the Mandala formation.
Behind the barrier, the prince and the rest of the warriors stand ready, moonlight gleaming on their silver steel armour.
"Prepare for combat!" The deputy commander issues a single, meaningful command.
The barrier meant to ward off an enemy ambush served its purpose. It bought ample time for the warriors to prepare for combat.
At the opposite end of the camp, loud but distinct chants of mantras born from dark arts echo through the silent forest. A dark-robed figure cloaked in shadows holds an ornate, serpentine bow carved from exquisite metal. His lips quiver rhythmically, wisps of dark energy humming in the vicinity.
Waves of dark purple prana rise from his body in rhythmic pulses. It coils around his body, travelling across his hand and concentrating at the tips of his fingers. The bow hums as he draws the string back. Dark prana escapes from his fingers, sinister and cruel; it coils together, conjuring mystic symbols in midair, condensing into a blinding arrow of dark light, dense and merciless.
A cold, sinister grin appears on his face. His chant ends, and he loosens the arrow.
With a violent burst of prana, the arrow tears through the world. It rips through the forest, trees in its path uprooted, their trunks atomised into splinters and ashes. The ground collapses beneath its passage, carving a glowing trench of molten soil and shattered stone. Leaves ignite midair, crushing rocks into powder, and the very air seems to scream as pressure and heat warp space around the projectile.
Finally, the inevitable happens. The arrow arrives at the barrier with unstoppable momentum. Its final strike lands- focused, powerful. The barrier screams; one outer sigil shatters, exploding into sparks.
This launched a chain reaction. The barrier flares brighter than ever; one sigil after another blazes white-hot, exploding and disintegrating into sparks and fragments of light. Dark prana surges out violently through the formation, and the barrier shatters. A thunderous shockwave follows, flattening the nearby forest. The shockwaves hurl several scholars, slamming them into nearby tents and trees.
However, the arrow continues forward, heading towards the warriors, its momentum unstoppable.