Surya stood beside Rishi Vashrya as a messenger arrived—dust still clinging to his cloak from days of relentless riding. He bowed low before the co-commander and presented two sealed scrolls: one bearing the royal insignia of Suryavarta, and another marked with the sigil of the Garuda Battalion.
The hall grew quiet as the co-commander broke the first seal. His eyes moved swiftly over the script, his expression hardening by degrees. When he looked up, the room felt heavier.
“The capital has issued new orders,” he said. “The western frontier has erupted in sudden conflict. The border tribes—those who have lived in peace for generations—have turned against us. They strike without formation or demand, as if driven by madness. Two of our outposts have already fallen.”
Surya’s brows drew together. “The western tribes? That’s impossible. They’ve had no quarrel with Suryavarta for decades. What could have provoked this?”
The commander exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “We do not know. Their attacks are chaotic—swift, without strategy or goal. They destroy everything in their path and retreat like shadows. It feels…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “...unnatural.”
At that, Surya’s gaze sharpened. “Unnatural,” he repeated under his breath, exchanging a glance with Vashrya.
The commander nodded grimly. “Reinforcements are to be dispatched at once—half of the Garuda’s strength. And…” He lifted the second scroll, still sealed in gold. “By the order of the royal council and the Maharani herself, Prince Surya is to accompany the western campaign.”
The room fell silent again. The weight of that decree settled like a stone in the air.
Vashrya’s calm voice broke the stillness. “The prince himself?”
“Yes,” said the commander. “The letter bears the Queen’s own hand.”
He stepped forward and placed the scroll in Surya’s grasp. “It carries both royal order and a mother’s word.”
Surya’s heart quickened as he broke the seal. The familiar fragrance of sandal and saffron rose faintly from the parchment. He recognized her handwriting—precise, elegant, and steady, just as he remembered.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
My beloved son,
It has been a full year since the palace last saw your light. Every morning, I ask the gods where you walk, and every night I pray that their hands guard you.
The people still remember your battle against the giant before you left—how you stood unshaken before a strong force and brought it to its knees. That day you proved your courage, and the kingdom believed in its prince. But now, whispers spread in every corner of Suryavarta. They wonder where their Yuvraj has gone. They wonder if he will return when the drums of war beat once more.
The King and the council have decided—you must ride to the western front with the Garuda Battalion. Not as a prince seeking glory, but as a leader whose presence steadies his men. The kingdom must see you, Surya. They must know that their heir still stands with them.
I know you may have your own purpose, my son. Perhaps greater than even the court understands. But not all roads are meant to be walked at once. The one you seek beyond the border will wait for its time. Destiny will not forget you.
Be safe, Surya. Eat when you can, rest when you must, and never lose the fire that makes you who you are.
— Your Mother, Maharani Maitreyi
When he finished reading, Surya remained still for a long while. The words blurred slightly, not from confusion but from the weight they carried.
He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his chest plate, near his heart. A slow breath steadied him. “She’s right,” he murmured. “I can’t remain hidden forever. I have to be seen—as myself, not as the myth they whisper of.”
The co-commander nodded solemnly. “The men will be proud to march with you, Prince Surya. The Garuda has stood since the founding of the kingdom. To have the heir among us will lift their spirit in these dark times.”
Surya looked toward the high window of the hall. Through it, he could see the fortress alive with motion—soldiers training, blacksmiths hammering, banners being raised. Every step was measured, every breath disciplined. The Garuda Battalion moved like a single body—unyielding and precise.
“This is Suryavarta,” Surya said softly. “Even in uncertainty, we stand unshaken.”
Vashrya gave a small approving nod. “That is the strength of your people, Surya. And now it is the strength you must lead.”
As they spoke, a sudden gust swept through the open window. A shadowed falcon descended silently and landed upon the table beside Vashrya. Around its leg was tied a strip of parchment sealed in black wax—the mark of Kashi’s council.
Vashrya’s fingers broke the seal. He read the few words written there, his face impassive but his eyes thoughtful. When he looked up, Surya knew without asking—it was no ordinary message.
“What do they say?” Surya asked quietly.
Vashrya’s gaze turned toward the west, where the horizon burned faintly under the setting sun. “They say,” he answered slowly, “‘The wind will not question the path it takes, nor should you. Walk where destiny carries you.’”
Surya held his breath for a moment, then exhaled. “So even Kashi points west.”
Vashrya nodded. “We go where the current leads. The Rakshasa, the tribes, the unrest—it may all be one tide. And fate has chosen your direction.”