The retreat was chaos.

  Arrows hissed past in the half-dark, cutting through smoke and cries. The burning village behind them lit the forest in violent reds and blacks, twisting every shadow into something alive. The soldiers ran, stumbled, reformed—their shouts clashing against the guttural war cries of the pursuing tribesmen.

  Bhargava’s voice cut through the din. “Fall back to the ridge! Stay in formation!”

  But the ridge felt too far, and the forest too close.

  Surya ran near the center, turning every few strides to parry or deflect a thrown weapon. The wind burned in his chest. All around him, the once-disciplined Garuda men were losing focus—some shouting, others silent in panic. And beneath the noise… there was something else.

  A whisper.

  It wasn’t sound. It was pressure—soft, invasive, like hands pushing into his mind. The fear wasn’t natural; it was being fed. The soldiers’ panic, their confusion, it all carried a strange rhythm.

  Then Surya saw it—a Garuda scout, running beside him, suddenly turn and strike at his own comrade with wild eyes and a snarl. The blow was clumsy, unthinking. His expression—empty, consumed.

  The Rakshasa’s touch.

  Surya’s breath caught. It’s not just in them—it’s in the mind.

  A darkness that bends will, whispers doubt, drowns reason.

  He clenched his jaw. He could feel it trying to find a way in—subtle, cold. But his spirit was steadied by something else, something stronger. The rhythm of his mantras, the unity of the elements within him—Fire’s clarity, Water’s calm, Wind’s focus. The three pulsed together, not as spells, but as himself.

  And in that moment, instinct took hold.

  Surya stopped. The others stumbled past him in confusion.

  He pressed his hands together, breath steadying into the ancient rhythm. Fire kindled at his fingertips, gathering with a rush of wind until it swelled into a burning sphere above his palms.

  The tribesmen were closing fast.

  “Yuvraj!” Dharan shouted. “We have to move!”

  But Surya raised his hands toward the night sky—and unleashed it.

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  A great fireball roared upward, exploding into the clouds with a thunderous crack. For a heartbeat, the whole forest glowed gold and crimson. Then, with a whisper of wind, Surya spread its flame outward—not to burn, but to light.

  For miles, the sky bloomed red like dawn.

  The soldiers froze, staring. Even the pursuing tribes faltered at the sight.

  Then, as the fire’s glow faded, came another sound—low, deep, growing stronger with every breath.

  Drums.

  The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet. Then again, louder.

  A horn followed—a long, rising note that cut through forest and fear alike.

  It was the sound every Garuda soldier knew by heart.

  The War Horn of the Garuda.

  The men’s eyes lit up. Even in exhaustion, their backs straightened, their steps regained rhythm. The fear that had taken them moments ago was replaced by something older—trust.

  “The fortress…” Dharan gasped. “They’re coming!”

  Far behind, at the border fortress, Rishi Vashrya had been standing on the ramparts when the fire had risen in the night sky. Its crimson bloom painted the horizon above the western forest. He had seen it once before—at Jyoti Matha, when Surya had first mastered the flame.

  He knew at once.

  He turned to Prithak, who stood near the signal tower. “That was no star,” he said quietly. “That was Surya.”

  Prithak’s face hardened. “You’re certain?”

  “There is no other who can blend wind and fire like that,” Vashrya replied. “He is in danger. Ready the troops—Garuda and Vanastha both.”

  The soldier nodded once, already moving.

  Within moments, the fortress came alive—horns blaring, gates opening, armor striking armor. The ground shook with the march of hundreds of soldiers—discipline and purpose forged in years of training.

  They knew what the fire meant.

  Their Prince was calling.

  Back in the forest, the sound reached Surya’s retreating men. The steady thrum of drums, the iron rhythm of boots upon earth—it carried through the trees like a promise.

  Even the wounded lifted their heads at that sound. Dharan raised his sword, his voice hoarse but fierce.

  “They’re coming! Hold your line!”

  Bhargava’s voice rose again, this time unbroken by fear.

  “Garuda! To me!”

  The formation reformed. Shields locked. Arrows met with deflection instead of fear.

  They moved, not in panic now, but in step—the rhythm of their home, their fortress, their people.

  And ahead, through the trees, the first flashes of light—torches, armor, the shimmer of a charging line.

  Garuda reinforcements—rushing toward them like a wave of steel and discipline.

  Surya turned once, catching sight of the pursuing tribesmen still howling, still rushing mindlessly after them. But now their cries were being drowned out—not by the darkness, but by the sound of the Garuda charge.

  He exhaled slowly, his aura still faintly glowing.

  You can whisper all you want, he thought, but my fire burns louder.

  The ground shuddered.

  The drums roared.

  The horns blazed their final call.

  And as the forest erupted into the clash of armies, the fire in the sky still flickered faintly above—a beacon, a warning, and a promise.

  The Prince of Suryavarta had lit his signal.

  And Kashi’s wind had carried it to war.