Three days passed since the last clash along the western front.

  The smoke had long since faded, the air had cleared, and the restless hush that followed battle had settled across the fortress like a heavy blanket.

  The Garuda banners still flew high, but there was no celebration—only silence and fatigue.

  For the first time in months, no horns sounded. The land, wounded and wary, was finally still.

  Surya stood atop the fortress wall, the cool morning wind brushing against his face. Beyond the ramparts stretched the vast expanse of the western plains, dotted with lonely groves and mist-clad ridges. Once, he would have found the view beautiful. Now, it only reminded him of how fragile peace could look.

  Behind him, footsteps echoed.

  Commander Bhargava approached, his armor polished but worn, a rolled parchment in his gloved hand. His face was lined with the fatigue of long campaigns, but his voice remained firm.

  “Yuvraj,” he said, offering the scroll. “A message arrived from the capital—straight from Indraprastha.”

  Surya turned, accepting it. The royal seal of Maharaja Veerajit shimmered faintly on the wax.

  Bhargava folded his arms as the prince broke the seal and read aloud.

  The valor and conduct of Commander Bhargava, Sage Vashrya, His Highness Yuvraj Surya, and all soldiers of the Garuda and Vanastha Battalions are hereby acknowledged before the Rajya Sabha.

  The Western front shall remain under observation for seven days following this message.

  At the end of said period, Commander Bhargava will lead two-thirds of the Garuda Battalion back to the southern fortress to reinforce the Avanendra front.

  The remaining forces shall stay under the command of Commander Prithak Sen of the Vanastha Battalion, who will assume charge of all defensive operations and western surveillance henceforth.

  His Highness Yuvraj Surya and Sage Vashrya are ordered to return to Indraprastha immediately upon the transition of command to report to the Maharaja and the Rajya Sabha regarding recent events.

  The Dharma endures.

  May the Light of Surya guide and guard.

  When Surya finished reading, the tent was silent except for the faint crackle of the lamps.

  Bhargava exhaled slowly. “So it’s decided. The West returns to Vanastha.”

  Vashrya, who stood beside Surya, gave a single nod. “It’s the right choice. This land requires those who understand it—not armies of conquest, but watchers of balance. The Vanastha were born for that.”

  Bhargava gave a faint, weary smile. “And I was born for battlefields that don’t sit still. I won’t argue.”

  He turned to Surya. “I’ll leave within the week with my men. Prithak will take the command once we march. Until then, you’ll oversee preparations—these soldiers still follow your voice.”

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  Surya nodded. “Of course.”

  Bhargava studied him for a moment. “You’ve grown, Yuvraj. You’ve led, fought, and bled with soldiers. That’s more than any prince can learn in the palace.”

  “I had good commanders,” Surya replied, meeting his gaze.

  Bhargava grinned faintly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Then maybe one day you’ll be one.”

  The days that followed were quieter.

  Reports trickled in: no new tribal movements, no more strange sightings near Aghora Ridge. The forest had gone silent again, save for the wind that carried the faint scent of rain.

  Under Bhargava’s supervision, the fortress prepared for division. Two-thirds of the Garuda force assembled—five hundred hardened veterans, cavalry and archers alike—ready to march south.

  The rest remained under Prithak Sen, whose calm and calculating leadership suited the frontier perfectly.

  Where Bhargava’s strength was in the roar of command, Prithak’s was in the stillness between them.

  “Different kinds of war,” Vashrya had said quietly. “Both needed. Both rare.”

  On the morning of the sixth day, the fortress gathered to bid farewell.

  The sound of drums rolled like thunder through the mist as the Garuda banners dipped in salute. Bhargava mounted his horse, his expression set with the familiar iron calm of a man who had seen too many battles to mistake victory for peace.

  Surya stood beside Prithak and Vashrya on the ramparts, watching the long column of Garuda warriors march southward—their armor glinting like scales of a living sun-serpent winding through the plains.

  For a moment, it felt as though the world itself was holding its breath.

  Then Bhargava looked back, raising his spear in salute.

  “Hold the line, Prince,” he called. “And don’t let the sages talk you out of fighting when the time comes!”

  Surya smiled faintly and raised his sword in return. “I’ll remember that.”

  When the dust of the departing column finally faded into the horizon, the fortress felt quieter, smaller. The constant rhythm of Garuda drills was gone, replaced by the soft, measured steps of the Vanastha sentinels.

  Commander Prithak turned to Surya. “You should prepare to leave tomorrow. The capital waits, and Vashrya has already sent word that your report will be of grave importance.”

  Surya nodded, his eyes lingering on the western woods. “It’s strange,” he said. “When we came here, the west was chaos. Now it’s quiet—but I don’t know if I trust that.”

  Prithak gave a small, knowing smile. “You shouldn’t. But that’s why we’re staying.”

  He offered his hand, soldier to soldier. “It’s been an honor, Yuvraj.”

  Surya clasped it firmly. “The honor’s mine, Commander. May your forests stay calm—and your blades sharp.”

  That night, Surya and his companions stood outside the fortress, watching the stars bloom across the western sky.

  Varun stretched, muttering, “Feels strange to rest without battle drums.”

  Meera smirked. “Don’t say it too loud. The gods might hear and send us another one.”

  Dharan laughed quietly. “If they do, we’ll be ready.”

  Surya glanced at Vashrya, who was staring toward the horizon, his face unreadable. “You think this peace will last?”

  Vashrya didn’t look away. “Peace is like breath,” he said softly. “It ends the moment you forget you’re holding it.”

  Surya exhaled slowly, watching the mist drift from his mouth. “Then let’s not forget.”

  By dawn, the Yuvraj of Suryavarta and his companions mounted their horses.

  As the gates opened, the first rays of sunlight struck the fortress walls, turning them to gold.

  The Vanastha guards stood in silent salute as the prince’s small escort rode eastward, toward Indraprastha — toward duty, questions, and the weight of a kingdom waiting for answers.

  Behind them, the western winds carried faint whispers through the forest.

  Not cries, not war horns — only something that might have been a sigh.

  As if the land itself watched them leave.