The road became wider the closer they came to the capital. Stone gave way to polished slabs, dust to swept paths. The smell of fields and forests slowly shifted into the faint scents of incense, fresh bread, and city life.

  By the time Surya and the others reached the outer limits of Indraprastha, the sun was beginning its descent — and the city had already heard the news.

  “The Yuvraj is returning!

  “Prince Surya is home!”

  Shouts rippled from street to street like sparks leaping from one lantern to the next. People paused mid-task, merchants leaned out of their stalls, and children darted through the alleys to get a look. Even the city guards straightened with visible pride when they saw the small but unmistakably battle-worn group approaching the gates.

  The massive doors of Prabhat Dwar opened slowly, and as Surya and his companions passed through, the crowd waiting just inside erupted.

  “Victory to the Yuvraj!”

  “Welcome home, warriors of Suryavarta!”

  Surya blinked — he hadn’t expected this. They had travelled quietly for days, without banners, without announcement. But clearly the city had been waiting.

  Flower petals — marigold, jasmine, champa — drifted down from balconies. Some people clapped, others simply watched with shining eyes, but the joy was unmistakable. The cheers weren’t incessant; they came in waves, warm and human, not theatrical.

  Meera grinned as a group of young women cheered her name specifically.

  Varun was startled when a child shouted, “The Silent One! The scout who sees everything!”

  Pratap received respectful nods from older warriors.

  And Virat — the son of Senapati Rudra — was recognized everywhere, earning both prideful cheers and teasing shouts from boys his age.

  Even Dharan, usually reserved, cracked a small smile when a group of Garuda trainees saluted sharply from the street side.

  Surya felt his heart tighten.

  This — the safety of the people, the warmth in their faces — this was why they fought.

  The city guard formed an escort around them. There was no over-the-top ceremony, just efficient, proud soldiers guiding them through the main boulevard toward the palace.

  “Feels strange,” Varun murmured. “All this noise after months of forest silence.”

  “It’s not noise,” Meera said. “It’s relief. They heard what happened in the west.”

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  Virat nudged Surya lightly. “Looks like you’ve become a hero, whether you wanted to or not.”

  Surya shook his head. “We all did this together.”

  “Still,” Virat added with a half-smile, “you’re the one they’re throwing flowers at.”

  Surya tried not to smile, but failed.

  As they moved deeper into the city, the architecture rose around them — golden sandstone buildings, tall carved pillars, sprawling markets now lit by evening lamps. The familiar smell of Indraprastha — spices, ghee, river wind — made Surya’s chest ache with memories.

  It had been nearly a year.

  When they reached the palace gates, the guards saluted sharply and opened the doors. Inside the courtyard, a more formal assembly waited — nobles, ministers, elite soldiers, attendants — all standing in respectful formation.

  At the top of the steps stood three figures Surya knew better than anyone.

  Maharaja Veerajit.

  Straight-backed, armored lightly, his expression firm but his eyes unmistakably softened when he saw his son.

  A king who could not show emotion — but whose silence spoke volumes.

  Maharani Maitreyi.

  Warm eyes glistening, her hands clasped in front of her, barely able to keep herself from rushing down the steps.

  Senapati Rudra.

  Virat’s father. A strict warrior, unshakeable as iron — but even he allowed a ghost of a smile at the sight of both boys standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Surya dismounted with a controlled breath. The noise of the crowd dimmed. He walked up the steps, his companions following a step behind.

  He bowed lightly, respectful but no longer the hesitant boy he once was.

  “Maharaja. Maharani. Senapati.”

  Veerajit looked him over — armor dented, eyes older, posture steadier.

  “You return as a warrior,” the king said simply. “And Suryavarta welcomes you.”

  The words were brief, but Surya felt the weight behind them. His father was proud — deeply so — even if he couldn’t show it as others would.

  Maitreyi stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Surya’s cheek, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “You’re safe,” she breathed. “That is enough for me.”

  Surya lowered his head slightly, touched by her warmth.

  Then Rudra approached, proud and stern.

  “You led well,” Rudra said. “I’ve heard the reports. A giant. The western tribes. A forward march beyond our borders. You’ve earned the respect of soldiers.”

  Virat straightened beside Surya, waiting for his father’s acknowledgment.

  Rudra’s gaze shifted to him.

  “And you,” he said. “You fought like a true son of my house.”

  Virat beamed, pride shining openly.

  The ministers murmured among themselves. Soldiers exchanged nods of approval. A few nobles assessed Surya with new eyes — the kind reserved for heirs proven in war.

  Veerajit raised his hand for silence.

  “The Rajya Sabha will convene at dusk,” he announced. “The kingdom must hear what occurred in the western frontier — directly from those who faced it.”

  Surya nodded. “We will be ready.”

  Veerajit’s gaze softened for the briefest moment.

  “Until then,” he said, “rest. You have earned it.”

  As Surya and his companions followed a palace guard toward their quarters, Meera exhaled loudly.

  “Well,” she muttered, “that was something.”

  Varun smirked. “You think the council will be calmer?”

  Dharan chuckled. “Not a chance.”

  Vashrya, who had watched the entire reception quietly, spoke at last.

  “Celebration is for the people,” the sage said gently. “The Sabha will want truth. Whether they accept it is another matter.”

  Surya looked down one of the long palace corridors, the familiar carvings, the distant echo of bells.

  He wasn’t the same boy who left this place.

  But this was still home.

  And now, he returned with a burden the kingdom did not yet understand.

  Yet.

  He took a slow breath.

  “Let’s prepare,” he said.

  And the palace swallowed them into its golden halls.