The next morning broke pale and cold over Fort Dandhara. A mist had rolled down from the northern hills, settling low across the grasslands, making the fortress seem to float above a shifting sea of white. The horns of morning call echoed across the encampment, and within moments, Garuda’s camp came alive — the metallic rhythm of armor buckling, the sharp voices of officers calling roll.

  By the time the sun rose, Surya, Vashrya, Bhargava, and the senior captains of Garuda were walking through the gates into the fortress. Within, the Vanastha command tent had been set in the inner courtyard — wide, circular, the floor layered with rough maps and marked stones denoting troop movements.

  Commander Prithak Sen awaited them inside, already standing over a large map of the frontier. Around him were half a dozen Vanastha officers, their cloaks dusted from early patrols, their expressions grave.

  “Welcome, Commander Bhargava, Yuvraj Surya,” Prithak greeted. “I wish we could have met under calmer skies.”

  “War seldom allows calm,” Bhargava replied with quiet composure.

  Prithak gave a curt nod, gesturing for them to gather around the map. “We’ll start with the situation as of last week. The tribal clans across the border — once scattered and mostly peaceful — have united under a new banner. No emissaries, no messengers. Just attacks. Quick, senseless, brutal.”

  One of his officers pointed to the drawn ridgelines on the parchment. “Raids began here, near the Varaga Forest Belt, and spread southward in waves. But there’s no consistency. They strike, vanish, sometimes leaving their own dead behind — as if the fights mean nothing.”

  Surya studied the markings. “No strategy. No coordination. Just chaos.”

  Prithak nodded grimly. “Exactly. At first, we thought it was desperation. Scarcity. But when our scouts returned — those few who did — they spoke of something else.”

  The tent went silent.

  “They said the tribes no longer move as men do. Some fight without feeling pain. Some scream names that are not their own. The few captives we’ve taken—” he hesitated, his voice lowering, “—don’t survive long. Within days, they begin muttering, clawing at their own skin, as if something burns inside them. Then they die. Or change.”

  Bhargava’s brows drew together. “Change?”

  Prithak didn’t answer directly. Instead, he pointed to a section of the border map, marked with black ink rather than red. “Two nights ago, we lost contact with our scouts here — a village near the Aghora Ridge. The same smoke you saw last night rises from that direction.”

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  Vashrya, who had remained quiet until now, spoke softly: “Darkness doesn’t only corrupt—it mimics. What you call madness may be its first language.”

  A brief silence followed. The Vanastha officers exchanged uneasy glances; even seasoned warriors found little comfort in the sage’s tone.

  To break the tension, Surya turned slightly, his curiosity piqued by the emblems stitched onto the Vanastha banners — a silver tree entwined with a serpent.

  “If I may,” he said, “I’ve heard of the Vana-Rakshaka Battalion during my journey. They serve deep within our forests. Are they your allies here?”

  Prithak’s expression softened a little, grateful for the shift. “Indeed, Yuvraj. The Vana-Rakshaka were born from our very ranks. Once, they were a branch within the Vanastha Battalion — the forest scouts who patrolled the inner wilds of Suryavarta. But the needs of the realm grew. As our borders stretched and more lands required guardianship, the crown made them a separate battalion.”

  Bhargava nodded thoughtfully. “And they still recruit from your ranks.”

  “Yes,” said Prithak. “Every Vana-Rakshaka learns the wild from us first. They protect the heartland’s forests, while we defend the outer wilderness. Two halves of the same root.”

  Surya’s gaze lingered on the map. “Then whatever corrupts the wild out here…”

  “…could one day seep inward,” Prithak finished grimly. “That is what we fear.”

  He turned to the larger strategy map, where small wooden pieces marked both battalions’ positions. “For now, our orders are to contain the assaults and hold the frontier line. The Vanastha forces are stretched — just over five hundred here, with two hundred scouts missing beyond the ridge. Your arrival with seven hundred strengthens our defense, but we cannot risk an all-out push until we understand what we face.”

  Bhargava stepped forward. “Then we start with reconnaissance. My men can pair with your scouts, sweep the areas near Aghora Ridge, recover what information we can.”

  “Agreed,” Prithak said. “You’ll have my best trackers to lead you through the woods. The forest is treacherous there — broken paths, shallow ravines. And the tribes know it better than we do.”

  Vashrya raised his hand slightly. “If what lies there is more than war, we must tread carefully. The Rakshasa do not announce themselves with battle horns. They whisper. They tempt.”

  Surya listened, the tension tightening behind his calm. “Then we move at dawn tomorrow. Before they have time to vanish again.”

  Bhargava inclined his head. “I’ll ready the strike unit — small, mobile, no more than fifty men. We’ll report by sundown.”

  Prithak agreed. “May the gods favor your path. We’ve lost too many in those woods already.”

  As the meeting broke, Surya paused once more at the map. His eyes traced the inked ridges, the black circles that marked lost villages, and the faint smoke that still drifted beyond the horizon.

  For a fleeting moment, the shapes on the parchment seemed to move — like shifting shadows crawling over the drawn borders.

  He blinked. It was gone.

  But somewhere deep within, a quiet certainty stirred.

  The darkness they had chased since Kashi was not finished with them yet.

  And this time, it had already crossed the line between myth and war.