The road to the southwest was not the quiet stretch of wilderness Surya remembered.

  As his company approached the frontier lands, the silence of nature gave way to the hum of movement—caravans, patrols, and banners fluttering in the dust-heavy wind. The earth trembled faintly beneath the rhythm of boots and hooves.

  Vashrya’s sharp eyes scanned the roadsides. “The pulse of war,” he murmured. “Suryavarta no longer breathes in peace.”

  Surya said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the horizon. The air was tense—not from battle, but from the weight of anticipation. Soldiers marched in well-ordered lines, and supply carts rattled under the load of weapons, rations, and armor. Even the merchants’ eyes darted warily between the roads and the skies, as though they expected the wind itself to bear warning of danger.

  By the time they reached Rantipura, the last great merchant city before the southern border, the roads had become a sea of movement. The smell of iron and oil hung heavy over the air.

  Surya slowed his horse, watching the scene unfold. “So much steel… for a border that once needed none.”

  Pratap whistled low. “It’s like the capital moved here.”

  Virat grunted. “It’s worse. Look at those banners.”

  His finger pointed to two tall standards fluttering above the outer fields.

  One bore the Garuda, wings spread and talons forward—a sigil that made Dharan straighten immediately.

  “The Garuda Battalion,” Dharan said softly. “The elite guard of Suryavarta. That’s the battalion we trained for in Garudashala.”

  “And beside it…” Meera narrowed her eyes. “The Durgapala Battalion—the city wardens.”

  Vashrya frowned slightly. “For both to be stationed here together means the threat has teeth.”

  They rode onward until the towering walls of the temporary encampment came into view—tents lined in perfect formation, signal fires rising, soldiers moving with precision.

  Before they could enter, a small patrol intercepted them. Spears lowered, their leader called out sharply, “Halt! Identify yourselves!”

  Surya dismounted calmly, his cloak fluttering lightly. “We are travelers from Kashi,” he said evenly. “We seek an audience with the commander of this camp.”

  “Travelers?” one of the guards repeated, squinting. “This is restricted ground. No outsiders—”

  But then his eyes fell on Dharan’s crest, the Garuda insignia etched on his vambrace. His expression shifted instantly. “Wait… are you—?”

  Surya pulled back his hood just slightly. The sun caught the faint golden mark on his forehead.

  A collective gasp rippled through the guards.

  “Prince Surya?” the lead soldier stammered, immediately bowing low. “Forgive us, my lord! We didn’t— we—”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Surya said gently. “You were only doing your duty.”

  The soldiers straightened, and within moments the news spread like wildfire. By the time they reached the main gate of the encampment, the entire outer camp had stirred into motion. Men lined the road, standing at attention, whispering in disbelief.

  Then, from the central command tent, a large, broad-shouldered man emerged, his armor gleaming with the sigil of the Durgapala. His voice boomed across the yard.

  “Make way! Make way for His Highness!”

  He strode forward and saluted deeply. “Commander Kumbha of the Durgapala Battalion, at your service, my prince. You honor us with your presence.”

  Surya inclined his head. “Commander. Forgive the lack of heraldry—I travel not as a prince, but as a warrior.”

  Kumbha blinked, then let out a short, good-natured laugh. “Then the blood of Suryavarta flows truer than ever. You sound like your ancestors, my lord.”

  He turned, gesturing respectfully. “Please, this way. There is much to discuss.”

  Inside the command tent, maps of the southern terrain were spread across a great wooden table. Tiny markers shaped like elephants and spears marked the deployment lines, and thin strings connected points along the border like veins of conflict.

  Surya studied the map silently for a moment. “This many troops for one frontier?”

  Kumbha exhaled through his nose, his jovial tone fading into grimness. “The situation worsened long before you arrived, my lord. A year ago, His Majesty ordered increased vigilance along the southern reaches. Reports spoke of Avanendra’s soldiers disguising themselves as bandits—attacking traders, burning supply lines, probing our defenses.”

  “So the borders were sealed?” Vashrya asked.

  “High alert,” Kumbha confirmed. “The Maharaja stationed the Durgapala to secure the major cities, and deployed the Vana-Rakshaka Battalion to cleanse the forests. They hunt these so-called bandits—but many of them are soldiers, trained and armed too well for mere raiders.”

  Virat folded his arms. “And it got worse?”

  Kumbha nodded, grim. “Half a year ago, the disguise dropped. Avanendra began its open aggression. Not a full invasion—yet—but enough to bleed us slowly. Skirmishes, raids, fires along the frontier. They test our patience.”

  He stepped back from the map and poured a cup of spiced tea, his voice lowering. “Now, refugees pour through the mountain passes every few weeks. Farmers, traders, entire villages uprooted. We can’t just open the gates—we’ve established inspection stations to keep Avanendra’s spies out. Only after clearance do we send them to the refugee camps, built beyond the city walls. We supply them with food and medicine, but it’s a constant strain.”

  Dharan’s fists clenched. “Using their own people as cover…”

  “War rarely spares anyone,” Kumbha said heavily. “Even without open battle, it eats at peace.”

  Surya’s gaze remained fixed on the map, tracing the southern ridges where the forests thickened. “And the Rakshasa?”

  Kumbha frowned, uncertain. “There are whispers, my lord. Some of our men claim to have seen shadows moving faster than arrows in the forests. Others speak of camps that vanish overnight. But we’ve found no proof—no bodies, no trails. Only fear.”

  Vashrya exchanged a meaningful glance with Surya. “That is what we are here for.”

  Kumbha blinked. “You mean…?”

  Surya looked up, his eyes calm but resolute. “We came from Kashi not only to return home, Commander, but to seek the source of this shadow. Whatever lies beneath these attacks—it is not mere politics.”

  Kumbha straightened, struck silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, respect sharpening his expression. “Then, my lord, you have come to the right place. If there is something beneath this war, the southern winds will know it.”

  Surya’s gaze turned once more toward the horizon—the faint dark line of the forest visible beyond the open flaps of the tent.

  The air beyond those trees carried more than the scent of earth and smoke.

  It carried a whisper—a call.

  “The time for training is over,” he said quietly. “Now begins the purpose for which we trained.”