For two days, the fortress of the borderlands moved with precise rhythm—like a massive heart preparing to beat as one. Every courtyard rang with clashing steel and shouted orders, every barrack burned through the night with the glow of readiness.

  After careful consideration and consultation with the royal orders, it was decided: only one-third of the stationed force could be dispatched to the western front. Even that had not been easy. The southern borders were still tense with refugees from Avanendra and sudden skirmishes that sparked without warning. Yet, with the Durgapala Battalion now stationed at Rantipura, the Garuda force from there could be recalled to reinforce the fortress. Only a few detachments would remain behind—watching over the refugee camps and guarding the trade routes.

  Co-Commander Veeraditya Sen, the fortress commander and second-in-command of the Garuda Battalion, made the final call. He wrote a formal dispatch to the capital, explaining his decision in full detail. His authority carried weight—his seal alone could turn the King’s order into strategic adaptation.

  “Better a sharp spear than a heavy one dull with burden,” he had said as he signed the parchment. “The west needs speed and precision, not an empty fortress behind it.”

  The following days became a storm of preparation.

  Weapons were checked, provisions measured, horses shod and armored. Lines of Padāti infantry drilled in formation from dawn to dusk, while the Turaga cavalry tested their mounts along the stone paths beyond the gate. Blacksmiths sang their rhythmic clanging songs, and scribes moved between tents with lists and ledgers, ensuring that every sword and ration was accounted for.

  By the morning of the third day, everything was ready.

  Surya stood at the great gate of the fortress beside Rishi Vashrya and the companions, watching the assembled force before him. For the first time, he saw what a complete fighting unit looked like—not training squads or guards, but a full division of Suryavarta’s might.

  Seven hundred strong.

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  Padāti—infantrymen with bronze-scaled armor, shields gleaming under the sun.

  Turaga—cavalry, restless beneath their horses’ saddles, the wind stirring their plumes.

  Archers, healers, engineers, and carriers—all arrayed in perfect order.

  It was not chaos; it was discipline carved into motion. Every soldier moved like part of a single living being. The sound of their boots and hooves blended into a steady thunder—the pulse of Suryavarta itself.

  Surya’s breath caught in his throat. So this is the Garuda, he thought. The strength that guards our land.

  From among the lines stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man, his armor scarred but well-kept, his expression calm with the weight of experience. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his eyes carried the sharpness of one who had seen many battles yet not lost his compassion.

  “Prince Surya,” he said, bowing with dignity. “I am Bhargava, commander of this detachment. It will be my honor to lead this company under your banner. And even greater honor to have you as my second in command.”

  Surya inclined his head. “The honor is mine, Commander. I came here as a warrior, but it will be a privilege to learn from one who has carried Suryavarta’s flag through fire.”

  Bhargava smiled faintly. “Then we will walk together as soldiers, not prince and general—but as Garuda.”

  Behind them, Veeraditya Sen stepped forward, his eyes on the vast column of men ready to depart. “You ride under the crest of the sun,” he said solemnly. “Guard it well, and remember—you are Suryavarta’s voice beyond our borders now. Let the tribes see discipline, not destruction. And let our enemies remember why the Garuda has never bowed.”

  He raised his hand. “May the Sun watch over your steps.”

  The great gates opened with a deep groan of stone and iron. Beyond them, the long road west shimmered under the morning light. The banners of the Garuda Battalion caught the wind—crimson with gold trim, the emblem of the soaring eagle spreading its wings wide.

  The horns sounded.

  The drums thundered.

  Seven hundred men moved as one, each step shaking the ground beneath them.

  The air filled with the sound of armor and hooves, the rhythmic pulse of a force born not for conquest, but for protection.

  Surya rode beside Bhargava at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Behind him, the companions followed with silent determination.

  As the fortress walls faded behind them, Surya felt both the weight of command and the strange exhilaration of purpose. The war, the Rakshasa, the shadows—they were all threads in the same unseen tapestry.

  He did not yet know where it would lead.

  But as the Garuda banners rose high against the dawn, Surya knew one thing for certain—

  the path westward would test everything he had become.